The 

WILD  HEART 


By  Emma -Lindsay  Squier 


Introduction  by 
GEN7E   STRATTON'PORTER 


7 


OF  CALtf.  trtWARY.  LOS 


The 

WILD 
HEART 


Emma-Lindsay  Squier 


WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION  BY 

GENE  STRATTON-PORTER 

Illustrations  and  Decorations  by 
PAUL  BRANSOM 


NEW  YORK 


MCMXXII 


Copyright,  1922,  by  Cosmopolitan  Book  Corporation, 

New  York.     All  rights  reserved,  including   that 

of  translation    into   foreign    languages, 

including  the  Scandinavian 


First   printing March,    1022 

Second  printing April,  1022 


Printed  in  the  United  Slates  of  America 


DEDICATED  TO 
BASIL  KING 

WITH  DEEPEST  GRATITUDE  FOR  THE  INSPIRATION 
AND  ENCOURAGEMENT  THROUGH  WHICH 
THE  WILD  HEART  STORIES  FOUND  WRITTEN 
EXPRESSION,  AND  FOR  THE  TITLE  OF  THE 
SERIES  WHICH  THUS  CAME  INTO  BEING. 


21336R3 


THE  ILLUSTRATIONS  and  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Skygak  discovered  that  catching  mice  was 

Three-Spot's  chief  vocation.  .SKYGAK       12 

He  circled  slowly  above  our  heads 32 

U-Chu-Ka    never    failed    to    answer   our 

call U-CHU-KA       34 

For  the  dogs  had  lost  the  lighter  scent 

SANCTUARY         47 

He  questioningly  sniffed  the  breeze 

THE  FAERY  NIGHT         66 

Cannon  came  charging  in  a  whirlwind  of 
feathers    

THE  FRIENDSHIP  THAT  FAILED         82 

His   constant   barking  set   the   grown-ups 

against  him STOP  THIEF     101 

If  Clarence  had  been  a  man,  he  would  have 

endowed  orphanages  O'HENRY     124 

Timothy  clung  to  the  bottle  habit 

TIMOTHY,  THE  DIRTY  BEAR       145 

Sometimes  the  bandit  birds  swooped  down 

THE  BANDIT  BIRD       1 68 

Her  nostrils  dilated  at  the  hated  human 

SCent MY  FRIEND  THE  PRINCESS       189 

A  wild  thing  of  the  deep  woods,  ruled  by 

pain  instead  of  kindliness ETHEL    208 


AN    INTRODUCTION 
Which  might  better  be  entitled: 

Some  Youngsters  Find 
the  Wrong  Parents 

By 

Gene  Stratton  -Porter 


INCE  "The  Wild  Heart" 
is  throbbing  with  the  same 
blood  that  pulses  in  the 
heart  of  every  human  be- 
ing who  goes  to  the  fields 
and  fraternizes  with  the 
home  there,  since  the 


and  woods 
creatures  that 
feet  that  carry  a  wild  heart  on  its  jour- 
ney are  following  the  same  path  that  a 
few  peculiar  feet  have  made,  what  they 
have  found  and  what  the  heart  has 


INTRO- 
DUCTION 

2 


learned  is  the  same  thing  that  similar 
feet  have  been  finding  and  hearts  have 
been  learning  since  the  beginning  of 
time. 

The  author  of  this  book  pronounces 
it  "very  simple,  having  no  literary  style 
or  value."  Perhaps  this  estimate  indi- 
cates modesty  on  her  part,  but  it  is  not 
the  truth  concerning  the  book.  Thoreau 
once  wrote :  "It  takes  two  to  speak  the 
truth — one  to  speak  and  the  other  to 
hear."  Those  of  us  who  have  made  our 
own  path  through  the  wilds  know  the 
truth  when  we  hear  it.  The  first  law 
that  can  be  laid  down  concerning  any 
work  worthy  to  be  put  into  the  hands 
of  the  public  is  the  old  law  that  every 
writer  should  write  concerning  matters 
of  his  own  personal  observation.  When- 
ever any  writer  follows  this  old  rule, 
working  with  sincerity  of  heart,  with 
inborn  insight  concerning  his  chosen 
subject,  following  the  promptings  of  a 
simple  human  heart,  and  using  a  cer- 
tain facility  in  the  choice  of  words, 


which  is  a  gift  of  God  primarily,  that 
author  must  evolve  good  work.  Laying 
down  these  specifications  as  law  which 
governs  every  masterpiece  that  ever  has 
been  produced,  it  will  be  observed  that 
"The  Wild  Heart"  follows  them  as 
naturally  as  water  flows  to  the  sea,  pos- 
sibly as  unconsciously. 

To  anyone  who  knows  the  fields  and 
woods  the  book  carries  the  conviction 
of  truth.  Those  who  do  not  know  na- 
ture will  not  believe  many  of  these 
statements,  because  they  have  not 
learned  that  when  one  goes  into  the 
haunts  of  the  wild  calmly,  fearlessly, 
absolutely  in  tune  with  Nature,  one  is 
perfectly  safe.  The  people  who  go  to 
fraternize  with  the  free  creatures,  to 
learn  the  secrets  of  Nature,  to  protect, 
to  love,  to  fellowship  with  the  wild, 
wear  an  invincible  armor. 

Enos  Mills  will  tell  you  that  he 
tramps  the  Rocky  Mountains  for  weeks 
at  a  time  absolutely  without  a  weapon. 
Arthur  Heming  will  tell  you  that  he 


INTRO- 
DUCTION 


travels  Canada  from  side  to  side,  north 
and  south,  passing  all  kinds  of  wild 
creatures  at  all  seasons  and  under  any 
conditions,  and  nothing  touches  him. 

I  can  tell  you  that  my  face  has  been 
within  two  feet  of  a  coiled  rattlesnake 
ready  to  strike,  but  it  did  not  strike. 
Two  minutes  later  a  man  antagonistic 
to  the  wild  passed  the  same  location 
and  immediately  the  snake  disclosed 
itself  and  was  ready  to  fight. 

Very  recently  some  children  playing 
at  the  edge  of  the  desert  found  a  scor- 
pion. They  coaxed  it  onto  a  piece  of 
bark  and  were  carrying  it  around  play- 
ing with  it.  So  long  as  they  felt  no  fear 
of  the  creature,  it  was  quiescent  in  their 
hands.  The  instant  they  carried  it 
among  grown  people  who  recognized 
it  and  were  afraid,  the  trouble  began. 
When  the  wild  thing  entered  the  at- 
mosphere of  fear  and  was  surrounded 
by  the  taint  of  that  acid  which  is  ex- 
haled from  the  body  of  any  human  be- 


INTRO- 
DUCTION 
5 


ing  experiencing  fear,  that  instant  it 
was  on  guard  and  ready  to  strike. 

Any  human  being  carrying  in  his 
breast  a  wild  heart  knows  instinctively 
how  to  fraternize  with  the  wild.  Any- 
one carrying  a  heart  of  fear  and  antag- 
onism will  have  a  troubled  journey 
through  forest  or  desert.  The  writer 
of  this  book  proves  that  she  carries  a 
wild  heart  in  her  breast.  Her  records 
are  unquestionably  true.  They  are  pre- 
cisely the  same  things  that  happen  to 
anyone  having  a  heart  in  tune  with  Na- 
ture. 

So  the  book  passes,  first,  because  it 
speaks  the  truth.  It  needs  only  that 
these  records  should  be  read  to  gain  an 
idea  of  the  degree  of  insight  possessed 
by  the  writer.  The  nice  comprehension 
of  what  the  wild  is  thinking  and  feel- 
ing, the  keen  perception  of  the  "why" 
of  things,  pass  the  book  on  the  grounds 
of  insight.  The  simple  unassuming 
manner  in  which  the  record  is  kept 


proves  it  the  emanation  of  a  human 
heart  without  guile,  effervescing  love, 
not  only  for  the  beauties  of  field  and 
forest,  but  for  the  living  creatures  that 
home  there. 

It  is  modest  of  the  writer  to  say  that 
her  book  has  "no  literary  style  or 
value,"  but  the  book  proves  the  reverse. 
Throughout  will  be  found  the  value  of 
truth,  the  exquisite  style  of  utter  sim- 
plicity, the  best  plain  common  word 
chosen  to  tell  the  plain  common  story; 
and  it  is  a  very  difficult  thing  always  to 
find  the  right  words  with  which  to  tell 
any  story.  There  are  only  about  twenty 
thousand  words  in  the  English  lan- 
guage. When  you  compare  this  num- 
ber with  the  number  of  objects  existing 
in  the  world,  the  number  of  ideas  that 
have  sprung  and  will  spring  in  the 
human  brain,  it  easily  can  be  appreci- 
ated that  it  is  sometimes  difficult  to  find 
the  right  word  by  which  to  express 
one's  meaning  clearly  and  simply;  for 
there  always  is  one  word  which,  better 


INTRO- 
DUCTION 
7 


than  any  other,  will  portray  a  situation 
or  describe  an  object. 

Any  author  who  is  actuated  by  sin- 
cerity will  always  choose  the  plain  sim- 
ple word  which  expresses  his  meaning 
plainly  and  simply.  The  one  thing  that 
sets  apart  the  work  of  any  writer  is  the 
ability  to  express  himself  in  plain  sim- 
ple language  that  common  people  can 
understand  and  appreciate.  It  was  on 
this  subject  that  Martin  Luther  once 
said:  "Hebrew,  Latin,  and  Greek  I 
spare  until  we  learned  ones  come  to- 
gether, and  then  we  make  it  so  curled 
and  finical  that  God  Himself  wonder- 
eth  at  us." 

That  is  precisely  the  reason  why 
nine-tenths  of  the  Nature  books  written 
in  this  country  have  been  failures.  They 
are  "so  curled  and  finical"  that  only  the 
"learned  ones"  can  understand  what 
they  are  all  about. 

To  me  it  is  an  atrocity  to  tag  a  bird, 
a  butterfly,  or  a  flower  with  several 
inches  of  Latin  or  Greek  per  each. 


Every  living  creature  should  have  a 
common,  simple,  descriptive  name  that 
a  common  human  being  who  wants  to 
know  what  it  is  can  learn  and  remem- 
ber. I  do  truly  believe  "that  God 
Himself  wondereth  at  us"  if  He  takes 
the  time  to  look  at  many  of  the  books 
to  be  found  in  our  libraries  concerning 
the  most  exquisite  and  beautiful  of  His 
creatures. 

I  believe  that  any  normal  man  or 
woman  would  be  intensely  interested 
in  the  organism  of  a  moth,  the  delicate 
parts  so  beautifully  evolved  to  serve 
their  purpose;  but  what  common  per- 
son could  wade  through  a  large  volume 
crammed  from  end  to  end  with  such 
terms  as  patagia,  ]ugum,  disco cellular s, 
phagocytes?  It  is  such  works  on  Na- 
ture that  have  kept  the  Nature  lovers 
of  many  generations  out  of  the  fields 
and  woods.  They  had  not  the  educa- 
tion, the  time,  nor  the  inclination  to  be 
sufficiently  "curled  and  finical"  to  be 
specific.  They  could  take  no  one  speci- 


INTRO- 
DUCTION 
9 


men  and  learn  it,  because  they  could  not 
identify  it.  In  a  book  such  as  "The 
Wild  Heart"  there  is  no  word  that  a 
ten-year-old  child  can  not  compre- 
hend; while  there  is  a  wonderful 
beauty  and  facility  in  the  choice  of 
words,  in  the  sincerity  of  expression, 
and  the  sympathetic  insight. 

I  certainly  wish  that  a  copy  of  this 
book  may  go  into  every  home  in  the 
world,  for  two  reasons:  the  first,  that 
men  and  women  may  learn  how  anyone 
with  a  sympathetic  heart  devoid  of  fear 
may  fraternize  with  the  wild ;  and  for 
the  other  very  excellent  reason  that  it 
may  do  something  toward  teaching  par- 
ents that  all  children  are  not  alike  and 
can  not  possibly  be  run  through  the 
same  groove. 

Here  and  there  in  a  family  there  is 
born  a  child  with  a  wild  heart.  It  is 
nothing  less  than  a  tragedy  when  such 
a  child  is  cursed  with  the  wrong  par- 
ents. God  gives  to  only  a  few  of  His 
children  a  wild  heart,  a  musical  ear, 


INTRO- 
DUCTION 
10 


facile  fingers.  The  man  or  woman  who 
keeps  a  child  born  with  the  love  of  the 
woods  in  its  heart  from  contact  with 
Nature,  who  destroys  the  trust  that  God 
placed  in  its  heart,  and  instils  fear  bred 
by  man,  does  a  dreadful  thing,  a  thing 
that  must  end  in  disaster.  Nature  does 
not  reveal  her  secrets  to  everyone. 
Creatures  of  the  wild  will  not  be  broth- 
ers with  any  save  a  very  few  specially 
endowed  human  beings. 

To-day  my  heart  sickens  at  the 
thought  of  what  would  have  happened 
to  me  if,  when  I  told  my  Mother  I  had 
been  talking  with  the  fairies  and  what 
they  said  and  did,  she  had  whipped  me 
for  not  speaking  the  truth;  if,  when  I 
came  from  the  woods  with  my  apron 
torn  and  soiled,  full  of  dirty  specimens, 
my  heart  overflowing  with  the  wonders 
of  my  discoveries,  I  had  been  beaten 
and  forbidden  to  go  again.  If  we  are 
to  have  truly  great  art,  literature,  or 


INTRO- 
DUCTION 
II 


science  in  the  future,  many,  perhaps 
most,  of  those  who  are  to  do  the  work 
will  be  born  into  this  world  in  simple 
common  homes  like  the  Indiana  homes 
in  which  the  author  of  "The  Wild 
Heart"  and  I  were  born.  What  we  as 
a  nation  produce  in  wonder-work  along 
any  creative  line  in  the  future  is  going 
to  depend  upon  the  ability  of  parents 
of  this  generation  to  recognize  and  to 
foster  unusual  gifts  in  their  children 
when  they  first  detect  them.  The 
mother  who  whips  a  child  because  it 
happens  to  have  been  born  with  a  wild 
heart  does  a  thing  so  wickedly  cruel 
that  there  are  no  words  in  which  to  de- 
scribe the  situation  adequately.  If  this 
book  will  serve  the  one  purpose  of  mak- 
ing fathers  and  mothers  of  the  coming 
generation  sympathetic  and  kindly  to 
the  little  wild  hearts  that  they  bring 
into  the  world,  it  will  perform  a  very 
great  work  indeed. 


The  Story  of 


Part  One 


SKYGAK 


AN  OLD  MAN  SEA-GULL 


KYGAK  was  an  old-man 
sea-gull.  He  had  circled 
and  screamed  over  the 
waters  of  Puget  Sound 
for  many  a  season,  and  it 
is  doubtful  if  there  is  anything  in 
aerial  lore  that  he  did  not  know.  He 
was  an  expert  at  fishing,  and  could 
swoop  down  on  an  unsuspecting  smelt 
from  a  dizzy  height  and  have  the  shiny 

12 


Part  One 


Skygak  discovered  that  catch- 
ing mice  was  Three-Spot's 
chief  vocation,  and  he  made 
her  life  a  burden. 


fish  down  his  gullet  without  so  much 
as  touching  his  webbed  feet  to  the 
water's  surface.  He  could  snatch  up  a 
sidling  red  crab  before  it  could  seek 
the  shelter  of  a  rock,  and  drop  it 
neatly  and  accurately  on  a  stone,  to  dart 
down  upon  the  mangled  remains  before 
the  juicy  meal  could  be  purloined  by 
any  of  his  kindred. 

He  knew  when  storms  were  coming, 
13 


and  sometimes,  when  the  skies  were 
clearest  and  the  sun  warmest,  he  would 
spiral  up  to  a  great  height  and  scream 
in  long,  quavering  cadences  that  grew 
louder  as  the  rain  and  wind  ap- 
proached. Then  the  Siwash  clam-dig- 
gers on  the  beach  would  gather  up  their 
bags  and  shovels  and  bid  their  women 
see  to  brushwood,  for  they  knew  the  cry 
of  the  sea-gull  when  the  Storm-God 
rides.  They  respected  the  gray  gull's 
warning. 

We  were  children  on  the  shores  of 
Puget  Sound,  Brother  and  I.  From  our 
little  log  cabin,  with  its  porch  roof 
slanting  low  like  an  old-fashioned  poke- 
bonnet,  we  would  watch  the  sea-gulls 
circle  in  the  sky  or  bob  lazily  on  the 
blue  waters  of  the  bay  like  so  many 
feathered  corks. 

We  knew  Skygak  among  the  other 
gulls,  for  one  wing  was  white,  the  other 
gray.  So  when  we  saw  him,  we  named 


SKYGAK 
15 


him  by  a  queer,  fanciful  name  that 
seemed  to  fit  a  bird  of  air  and  water. 
And  because  the  boat  landing  in  front 
of  the  cabin  furnished  a  resting  place 
for  webbed  feet  on  sunshiny  days, 
Skygak  made  it  his  headquarters,  and 
we  came  to  look  for  him  and  to  be  fond 
of  him. 

When  we  sailed  in  the  tiny  twelve- 
foot  boat  with  its  home-made  leg-o'- 
mutton  sail  or  paddled  in  the  dugout 
canoe  made  for  us  by  a  Siwash  Indian 
chief,  we  looked  for  Skygak  in  every 
flock  of  sea-gulls  that  passed  us,  and  it 
was  our  superstition,  made  on  the  spur 
of  the  moment,  as  children's  fancies 
are,  that  if  he  flew  over  us  we  would 
have  good  luck,  and  that  a  wish  made 
on  the  instant  would  come  true. 

But  we  never  dreamed  that  Skygak 
of  the  air  lanes  would  one  day  be  an 
intimate  friend  of  ours,  for  we  had 
been  told  by  sailor  and  Indian  alike — 


and  who  knows  more  of  seafaring 
birds  than  they? — that  sea-gulls  could 
not  be  tamed.  The  Siwash  chief  who 
had  given  us  our  dugout  canoe  knew 
the  habits  of  the  winged  scavengers 
and  loved  them.  Perhaps  the  primi- 
tive heart  of  him,  held  in  leash  by  the 
white  man's  civilization,  was  tuned  to 
the  wild,  untamed  heart  of  the  gulls, 
for  they  flocked  around  his  beach 
shanty  unafraid,  and  ate  the  scraps 
of  clams  he  flung  to  them;  but  he 
had  never  touched  one  of  the  gray 
brethren. 

And  so  it  happened,  on  a  day  of 
mists  and  clouds,  that  Skygak  came 
into  our  lives  as  something  more  than 
a  gray-and-white  winged  bird  whose 
passage  above  our  boat  would  make  a 
wish  come  true. 

It  was  a  day  typical  of  autumn  in  the 
Sound  country.  Gray  rain  pattered 
ceaselessly  into  gray  waters  that 


SKYGAK 
17 


stretched  away  to  meet  a  leaden  hori- 
zon, and  low-hanging  clouds  swirled 
restlessly  with  every  gust  of  wind. 
But  the  smell  of  wet  pines  was  in  the 
air;  the  grass  was  green  and  glistening 
with  iridescent  beads.  It  was  a  day 
when  the  out-of-doors  called  the  hardy 
one  to  don  overshoes,  raincoat,  and 
sou'wester  hat  and  fare  forth  to  breathe 
the  wet  fragrance  of  woods  and  field, 
to  feel  the  soft  rain  on  uplifted  face, 
and  to  listen  for  the  storm  cry  of  the 
gulls  circling  against  the  sky. 

Brother  and  I,  clad  against  the  rain, 
stood  in  wonder  at  the  shore  end  of  the 
float.  For  there  on  the  far  end  was 
Skygak,  a  miserable,  dripping  figure 
hunched  dejectedly  on  the  wet  plank- 
ing. His  once  sleek  wings  hung 
limply  at  his  sides,  his  feathers  were 
draggled  and  unkempt,  his  head  was 
hanging  miserably  as  if  the  light  but 
steady  drizzle  were  torment  to  him. 


Above  him  soared  and  circled  his 
kindred  of  the  sky,  wondering,  no 
doubt,  what  was  wrong,  for  now  and 
again  one  of  them  would  turn  in  a 
half-circle,  spinning  on  the  tip  of 
one  great  wing,  and  scream  sharply, 
as  if  in  invitation  to  Skygak  to  join 
the  airy  tribe.  And  the  old-man  sea- 
gull would  turn  one  eye  up  to  the 
birds  above  him  and  give  vent  to  a 
plaintive,  longing  cry.  His  draggled 
wings  would  flap  in  the  rain  as  if  sheer 
force  of  will  must  bear  him  upward, 
then  relax  hopelessly  as  if  the  effort 
made  him  more  miserable. 

We  watched  and  speculated,  Brother 
and  I,  for  never  had  we  seen  a  gull  in 
such  a  plight.  We  saw  that  he  was 
denied  the  water,  too,  for  he  would 
stalk,  with  the  wobbly,  swinging  mo- 
tion of  a  web-foot  tribe,  to  the  edge 
of  the  float,  crane  his  neck  as  if  about 
to  launch  himself  upon  the  rain-beaten 


waves,  and  then  retreat  to  the  middle 
of  the  wharf  once  more.  A  gull  who 
could  neither  fly  nor  swim !  What  had 
happened? 

We  took  the  problem  to  the  Siwash 
chief  a  mile  up  the  beach,  mending  a 
fish-net  in  his  warm  and  smoky  shanty. 
He  listened  impassively,  yet  with  in- 
terest. And  he  returned  with  us  to 
the  float  to  diagnose  the  gull's  ailment. 

When  he  saw  Skygak,  he  grunted 
briefly  but  sympathetically.  The  bird 
had  been  caught  in  the  swell  behind  a 
large  boat — a  battle-ship,  probably — 
when  it  was  discharging  oil,  he  told  us. 
It  was  not  an  uncommon  thing,  he  said. 
The  gull's  feathers  were  soaked  with 
the  heavy  oil,  and  until  it  had  evapo- 
rated, or  until  new  feathers  should 
grow,  Skygak  would  be  helpless  both 
in  the  air  and  in  the  sea,  and  since  he 
could  not  provide  food  for  himself  he 
would  starve  to  death. 


So  spoke  the  Siwash  chief,  but  his 
philosophy  was  not  ours.  We  told  each 
other  that  Skygak  should  not  die,  and 
we  called  to  the  wet,  miserable  gull 
that  we  would  take  care  of  him,  but  he 
did  not  even  raise  his  head. 

What  should  we  feed  him?  We  had 
neither  clams  nor  fish,  and  we  were 
afraid  to  go  too  near  him,  lest  he  mis- 
take our  friendly  intentions  and  take 
to  the  water  in  self-defense,  to  be 
weighted  down  by  his  oil-soaked 
feathers. 

With  the  permission  of  our  always 
sympathetic  mother  we  salvaged  cook- 
ies from  the  jar  behind  the  kitchen 
stove.  We  took  cold  griddle-cakes,  too, 
and  scraps  of  meat  and  bread.  And 
with  these  dainties  we  set  about  the  task 
of  winning  the  gray  gull's  confidence 
and  of  saving  him  from  the  misfortune 
which  had  overtaken  him. 

Carefully  and  very  quietly  we  went 


SKYGAK 
21 


down  the  float,  as  near  as  we  could 
approach  without  Skygak's  taking 
alarm.  When  he  showed  signs  of  rest- 
lessness, we  advanced  no  further,  but 
put  a  chunk  of  meat  upon  the  planks 
and  withdrew  to  watch  and  wait. 

The  gull,  at  first  indifferent  to 
everything  but  his  unexplainable 
plight,  gradually  felt  hunger's  urge, 
and  his  long  neck  craned  toward  our 
offering  of  food.  Slowly  he  waddled 
toward  it,  a  grotesque  gray  bundle  of 
draggled  feathers,  and  with  one  vigor- 
ous gulp  the  meat  disappeared. 

Then  we  tossed  him  a  chunk  of 
bread  softened  with  water,  and  this 
time  Skygak  did  not  hesitate.  The 
first  morsel  had  aroused  an  appetite 
which  for  the  time  being  supplanted 
misery.  He  stalked  forward  and 
swallowed  the  food,  turning  on  us  the 
broadside  of  one  black  eye,  as  if  ask- 
ing for  more. 


Nor  did  we  refuse  him.  We  tossed 
him,  piece  by  piece,  the  food  we  had 
brought  with  us,  and  returned  to  the 
pantry  for  more.  Always  we  placed 
the  bread  or  meat  a  little  nearer  the 
shore  and  the  cabin,  and  Skygak  fol- 
lowed the  morsels  anxiously,  greedily, 
satisfying  a  hunger  which  must  have 
been  of  long  and  painful  duration. 

Early  dusk  was  upon  us  when  we 
finally  succeeded  in  tolling  the  gray 
gull  through  the  front  yard  into  the 
chicken  run,  and  into  an  unused 
brooder  house  which  offered  a  shelter 
against  the  rainy  night. 

The  lamps  were  lighted  in  the  little 
log  cabin  when  we  completed  our  self- 
appointed  task  of  making  Skygak 
comfortable,  and  our  only  regret  was 
that  we  could  not  give  our  friend  a 
blanket.  We  feared  he  would  not  un- 
derstand. 

That  was  the  beginning  of  a  three- 


SKYGAK 
23 


sided  friendship.  The  first  few  days 
of  Skygak's  convalescence  were  spent 
in  huddled  misery,  and  he  moved  only 
when  Brother  or  I  came  into  the 
brooder  house  with  food  and  water. 
Then  the  rain  ceased,  Indian  summer 
came  smilingly  upon  the  Sound  coun- 
try, and  when  the  sun  shone  warmly, 
Skygak  decided  that  life  was  not  all  a 
haze  of  gloom,  and  he  set  about  vigor- 
ously to  restore  himself  to  a  normal 
condition.  Hour  after  hour  he  pulled 
and  massaged  his  feathers  until  some 
of  the  heavy  oil  was  loosened.  The 
sunshine  helped  to  dry  his  draggled 
plumage,  new  feathers  commenced  to 
grow,  and  little  by  little  Skygak  be- 
came his  old  cocky  self. 

His  affection  for  Brother  and  me 
was  as  apparent  as  was  his  dislike  for 
all  other  members  of  the  human  race. 
The  grown-ups  he  would  not  trust,  and 
passers-by  annoyed  and  alarmed  him. 


But  he  would  follow  us  about  wher- 
ever we  went,  stalking  along  behind  us 
with  grotesque  dignity,  and  when  in- 
vited, would  fly  up  on  my  shoulder  or 
on  Brother's  to  receive  bits  of  food 
from  our  fingers  and  to  snap  playfully 
at  us  with  his  great,  powerful  bill  when 
we  pretended  to  box  with  him. 

The  liberty  of  the  ranch  was  his,  but 
his  favorite  spot  was  a  corner  of  the 
front  porch  where  he  would  sit  for 
hours  in  solemn  contemplation  of  the 
bay  in  front.  People  who  went  by  on 
the  trail  looked  in  wonder  at  the  gray 
gull  apparently  very  much  at  home  in 
a  little  log  cabin. 

Soon  he  learned  to  eat  with  the 
chickens,  and  when  the  bran  mash  was 
spread  for  them  in  a  long,  wooden 
trough,  Skygak  would  be  there  before 
the  bucket  was  emptied.  Then,  as  the 
hens  came  flocking  around,  the  gull 

would  spread  his  magnificent  wings, 


open  his  huge  beak  to  its  widest 
extent,  and  scream  shrilly  and  fiercely, 
laying  about  him  with  his  yellow  beak 
like  a  warrior  swinging  a  deadly 
sword.  The  startled  poultry,  unused  to 
this  changeling  of  the  sea  and  sky, 
would  scurry  away  with  distressed  and 
frightened  cackles,  and  Skygak  would 
eat  his  fill  at  the  trough,  pausing  occa- 
sionally to  administer  punishment  to 
any  daring  cockerel  who  ventured  too 
near.  Many  a  bunch  of  feathers  have 
I  seen  hanging  from  his  bill,  like  a 
scalplock  hung  from  the  belt  of  an 
Indian  brave,  mute  witness  to  a  battle 
of  brief  but  bloody  duration. 

Our  animals  soon  learned  that  this 
wandering  guest  was  to  be  respected. 
Tinker,  the  rat  terrier,  learned  to  his 
cost  that  Skygak  was  not  a  hen  to  be 
chased  from  the  front  porch,  if  he 
chose  to  stay  there. 

Between  our  cat,  Three-Spot,  and 


SKYGAK 
26 


the  gull,  a  bitter  feud  developed, 
which  had  for  its  beginning  such  a 
small  thing  as  a  mouse.  One  had  been 
killed  in  a  trap,  and  Brother  tendered 
it  to  Skygak  as  an  experiment.  The 
delicacy  was  new,  but  wholly  accept- 
able, and  with  one  ecstatic  snap  of  his 
beak  Skygak  swallowed  it,  and  after- 
ward, as  Brother  averred,  fairly  licked 
his  chops.  Three-Spot  sulked  and 
gloomed  because  of  the  slight,  but  her 
cup  of  woe  was  not  full. 

For  in  some  mysterious  manner, 
Skygak  discovered  that  catching  mice 
was  Three-Spot's  chief  vocation,  and 
he  made  her  life  a  burden.  One  morn- 
ing we  heard  an  outraged  yowl  from 
the  cat  and  an  answering  scream  from 
Skygak.  On  the  back  porch  we  found 
the  two,  Three-Spot  crouched  over  a 
dead  mouse,  eyes  gleaming  danger- 
ously, tail  switching  from  side  to  side, 
and  every  hair  erect.  The  bird  was 


advancing  cautiously,  but  relentlessly, 
wings  outspread,  beak  wide  open, 
screaming  and  snapping  at  every  step. 
Three-Spot  did  not  lack  courage,  but 
her  experience  had  not  included  jug- 
gernaut gulls,  and  when  the  terrifying 
yellow  beak  was  hard  upon  her,  she 
fled,  spitting  venomously,  and  Skygak, 
like  a  disreputable  robber  chief,  swal- 
lowed her  hard-earned  prize  in  one 
mouthful. 

From  that  time,  when  he  was  not 
following  Brother  and  me,  or  dozing 
on  the  front  porch,  or  bullying  the 
hens,  he  was  trailing  Three-Spot  about, 
a  relentless  gray  shadow,  and  if  the 
luckless  cat  succeeded  in  keeping  for 
herself  one  mouse  that  she  caught,  it 
was  when  Skygak  was  asleep  in  the 
brooder  house. 

Slowly  but  surely  the  old-man  sea- 
gull recovered  from  his  affliction. 
Some  of  the  oil-soaked  feathers 


dropped  out,  and  new  ones  took  their 
place,  and  he  risked  short  flights  from 
time  to  time,  cautiously  at  first,  as  if 
not  sure  of  his  powers,  and  then  with 
increasing  confidence.  He  ventured 
out  into  the  water  with  perfect  ease, 
and  we  knew  it  would  be  but  a  short 
time  before  he  had  completely  re- 
gained his  health. 

When  first  he  flew  we  were  afraid 
we  had  lost  him,  but  he  returned  at 
night-time,  hungry  and  eager  to  be 
taken  up  on  my  shoulder.  After  that, 
when  he  flew,  it  was  to  come  back  to 
us  as  naturally  as  if  we,  and  not  the 
sea-gulls,  were  his  kindred. 

But  there  came  a  day  when  a  feeling 
of  restlessness  was  in  the  air.  Brother 
and  I,  attuned  to  the  moods  of  the 
woods  and  of  out-of-door  things,  felt 
it  keenly,  and  we  were  not  surprised 
when  we  saw  overhead  the  V  forma- 
tion of  the  wild  geese  flying  southward. 


SKYGAK 

29 


Then  the  sea-gulls  commenced  to 
scream  in  short,  sharp  cadences,  and  a 
flock  of  the  gray  and  white  birds  flew 
overhead,  rising  higher  and  higher  as 
is  the  habit  of  the  gray  ones  when  the 
migrating  call  comes. 

Skygak  heard  the  call — that  we 
could  not  doubt — for  he  was  restless 
and  would  stretch  himself  on  tiptoe, 
flapping  his  wings,  turning  his  head  up 
to  the  sky  where  a  gray  cloud  of  birds 
were  flying.  Then  he  would  scream — 
short,  broken  cries  as  if  torn  by  inde- 
cision. He  loved  us,  we  knew,  but  he 
was  of  the  air  lanes;  the  gray  gulls 
were  his  kindred.  Sooner  or  later  he 
must  go  with  them. 

His  flights  grew  longer,  and  once  we 
did  not  see  him  for  three  days.  Even 
when  he  was  with  us,  he  was  ill  at  ease. 
The  wild  heart  of  him  was  longing  for 
the  untrammeled  freedom  of  the  winds 
and  the  sea,  and  gaunt  cliffs  untouched 


by  foot  of  man.  He  forgot  to  box  with 
us;  he  no  longer  bullied  the  poultry 
yard;  he  even  neglected  to  watch  for 
Three-Spot's  trophies  of  the  hunt. 

And  then  he  went  away.  A  week 
passed,  and  we  mourned  him  bitterly. 
It  was  not  so  much  his  going — we  knew 
we  must  expect  that — but  we  had 
wanted  to  tell  him  good-by  when  he 
left,  to  wave  our  hands  to  him  and 
wish  him  Godspeed,  to  watch  him  un- 
til he  was  only  a  speck  in  the  sky.  The 
Siwash  chief  said  Skygak  would  never 
come  back — but  he  did,  once  more. 

It  was  on  a  day  of  crystal  clearness, 
when  the  clouds  were  like  tiny  white 
boats  in  the  sky.  We  stood  in  the  yard, 
hand  in  hand,  watching  the  wild  geese 
pass  overhead  and  the  flocks  of  sea- 
gulls flying  high  above  them.  From 
the  west  came  a  gray  cloud  of  the  sea- 
birds,  with  one  gull  flying  far  in  the 
lead.  And  as  we  watched,  the  leader 


SKYGAK 
31 


left  the  flock  of  winging  gulls  and,  like 
a  falling  star,  swooped  down  upon  us, 
spiraling  lower  and  lower.  We  held 
our  breath  as  we  watched,  for  some- 
how, we  knew,  we  knew — 

A  flash  of  one  white  wing  showed 
clearly.  I  tried  to  speak,  but  no  words 
came.  Closer  and  closer  came  the  bird, 
Skygak,  our  old-man  sea-gull,  and 
when  he  was  no  higher  than  the  roof  of 
the  house,  he  circled  slowly  above  our 
heads.  Then  he  screamed  twice — 
long,  plaintive  cries  that  we  knew 
meant  farewell. 

We  were  crying,  but  we  waved  our 
hands  to  him  and  called,  "Good-by, 
good-by!"  And  slowly  he  rose  once 
more,  the  white  of  one  white  wing 
melting  into  gray.  Higher  and  higher 
he  winged,  to  take  his  place  at  the  head 
of  the  flock.  .  .  .  He  was  just  a  speck 
against  the  sky,  and  still  we  called  our 
farewells  to  him  in  words  choked  with 


He  circled  slowly 
above  our  heads 


tears — the  specks 
vanished  into 
cloudy  distance — 
Skygak  had  gone 
forever. 

But  it  was  not 
without  a  thought 
of  us.    We  shall  al- 
ways believe  that  he 
halted  the  winged  cara- 
van to  tell  us  good-by — 
and  the  Siwash  chief  be 
lieves  it,  too. 


Introducing 

U-CHU-KA 

THE  JUMPER 


Part  Two 


U-CHU-KA 


PON  the  Hill  Trail,  which 
Brother  and  I  called  ours 
because  we  loved  it  so,  you 
may  yet  see  a  little  clear- 
ing made  in  the  midst  of 
red  huckleberry  bushes,  Oregon  grape, 
and  dark  green  salal  shrubs.  As  long 
as  we  lived  in  the  little  cabin  by  the  bay, 
we  never  allowed  underbrush  to  creep 
into  this  spot  on  the  Hill  Trail,  for  it 
was  sacred  to  the  memory  of  U-Chu- 
Ka,  the  only  monument  we  could  give 
him. 

U-Chu-Ka  was  a  tiny  rabbit — a 
"jack-rabbit,"  I  suppose  natural  his- 
torians would  have  called  him.  But 
we  gave  him  the  name  that  in  the 
Chinook  language  means  "the  jump- 
er," and  we  never  called  him 
anything  else. 


Part  T<WQ 


U-CHU-KA 

THE  JUMPER 


He  never  failed  to 
answer  our  call 


U-CHU-KA 
36 


I  remember  the  day  we  first  saw  him 
— a  wee  baby  rabbit  he  was,  escaped 
somehow  from  his  mother's  vigilance, 
and  so  much  interested  in  the  big  world 
outside  the  burrow  where  he  had  spent 
his  short  life  that  he  hardly  knew 
whether  to  be  afraid  of  us  or  merely 
curious.  In  such  a  case  he  no  doubt 
remembered  his  mother's  warning,  for 
he  "froze."  By  this  I  mean  that  he 
remained  rigid,  the  tan  of  his  fur 
blending  with  the  mottled  greenery 
and  the  brown  tones  of  the  forest  un- 
dergrowth. But  Brother  and  I  could 
"freeze"  too,  having  learned  the  art 
from  the  woods  creatures  whom  we 
knew  and  loved.  So  we  stood  perfectly 
still,  and  then  it  was  a  case  of  seeing 
who  could  hold  out  the  longer. 

It  was  U-Chu-Ka  who  finally  ca- 
pitulated in  the  battle  of  freezing.  His 
curiosity  became  greater  than  his  fear, 
and  he  sat  up  on  his  haunches,  his  tiny 
forefeet  held  primly  over  his  stomach, 
his  ears — much  too  long  for  him — 


U-CHU-KA1 

37 


tilted  questioningly  in  our  direction, 
and  his  black  dot  of  a  nose  twitching 
ceaselessly. 

We  were,  I  am  sure,  the  first  human 
beings  U-Chu-Ka  had  seen,  and  al- 
though behind  him  were  countless 
rabbit  traditions  as  to  what  fearful 
creatures  humans  were,  U-Chu-Ka, 
being  so  young,  was  possessed  of  opti- 
mism and  confidence.  Brother  and  I 
were  so  happy  when  the  little  fellow 
with  his  soft  brown  eyes  decided  that 
we  were  friends  to  be  trusted!  Oh,  if 
we  had  only  realized  that  there  were 
other  people  not  so  friendly  to  little 
brown  rabbits,  whom  U-Chu-Ka  might 
have  the  misfortune  to  meet! 

But  we  never  thought  of  that.  Our 
one  realization  was  that  here  was  a 
new  woods  friend,  and  we  set  ourselves 
to  the  task  of  winning  his  heart. 

It  was  not  hard.  Indeed,  when  I 
think  of  it  now,  it  seems  so  pitifully 


U-CHU-KA 
38 


easy.  And  I  wonder,  if  every  one  knew 
just  how  easy  it  was,  if  men  would 
carry  sticks  that  shoot  flame  and  death 
into  the  domain  of  the  woods  creatures 
— if  they  would  not  carry  apples  in- 
stead. 

It  was  an  apple  that  first  won 
U-Chu-Ka's  heart.  Brother  had  one, 
of  course,  and  we  nibbled  bites  off  and 
placed  the  juicy  morsels  on  the  trail  in 
front  of  us.  Then,  walking  quietly 
backward,  we  waited  at  a  safe  distance 
for  the  wind  to  carry  the  delectable 
apple  fragrance  to  U-Chu-Ka's  wig- 
gling nose. 

Nor  was  it  long  before  one  satiny 
ear — so  fragile  that  it  was  almost 
transparent — drooped  and  then  rose 
again.  The  twitching  nose  worked 
harder;  U-Chu-Ka  sat  up  straighter 
than  ever;  and  then,  with  funny  little 
hops,  he  came  toward  us,  hesitating 
occasionally,  once  pausing  to  sit  up  on 


his  haunches  as  if  asking  himself  if 
he  were  doing  the  right  thing  in  ap- 
proaching thus  boldly. 

Finally  he  came  to  the  bits  of  apple 
and  promptly  forgot  his  fear  in  his  de- 
light at  the  unknown  dainty.  By  the 
time  he  had  eaten  the  few  morsels  we 
had  spread  out  for  him,  we  had  others 
ready,  this  time  only  at  arm's  length. 

Later  we  proffered  bits  of  the  fruit 
in  our  hands,  held  very  steadily  so  that 
no  jerking  should  alarm  the  little 
brown  rabbit.  At  first  he  was  unde- 
cided whether  to  accept  the  morsels  so 
close  to  the  big  human  creatures,  but 
something,  I  am  sure,  told  him  that 
there  was  no  harm  in  us.  In  the  end 
he  hopped  over  to  my  outstretched 
hand  and  nibbled  daintily  at  the  apple, 
while  I  held  my  arm  so  still  it  ached. 

What  Mother  Rabbit  would  have 
said  of  the  way  we  stuffed  U-Chu-Ka, 
that  day,  I  do  not  know,  but  I  am  sure 


U-CHU-KA 
40 


she  would  not  have  approved.  We  fed 
him  until  his  small  stomach  was  round 
as  a  ball.  When  the  apple  diet  seemed 
to  pall,  we  gathered  tender  blades  of 
grass,  and  very  soon  the  little  brown 
one  would  not  take  alarm  at  our  move- 
ments, but  would  watch  us  with  solemn 
baby  dignity,  sitting  up  on  his  haunches 
or  squatting  in  a  round  ball,  his  tiny 
ears  laid  over  his  back — a  sure  sign 
that  he  was  no  longer  nervous. 

How  we  hated  to  leave  him  that 
dayl  We  didn't  take  him  down  the 
hill  and  make  him  a  home  by  the  log 
cabin,  for  we  had  no  wish  to  frighten 
him,  and  as  for  foraging  for  himself 
in  the  woods,  we  were  sure  U-Chu-Ka 
knew  how  to  go  about  it.  So  we  left 
him  at  the  bend  of  the  trail  where  we 
had  first  seen  him.  We  called  it 
U-Chu-Ka's  corner,  and  we  left  the 
core  of  the  apple  for  him  to  nibble  on 
after  we  had  gone. 


The  next  afternoon  about  the  same 
time — for  the  woods  creatures  are  apt 
to  do  certain  things  at  certain  hours — 
we  came  up  the  Hill  Trail,  whistling, 
and  were  almost  at  U-Chu-Ka's  corner 
before  it  occurred  to  us  that  the  sound 
might  frighten  him  away  if  he  were 
still  in  that  neighborhood.  But  curi- 
osity is  a  rabbit's  strongest  trait,  and 
suddenly  there  he  was,  hopping  out  of 
the  underbrush  into  the  little  clearing 
as  if  in  response  to  our  call — indeed  as 
if  he  had  been  waiting. 

We  had  brought  offerings  of  lettuce 
and  cabbage  leaves,  and  this  time  it 
was  not  half  so  long  before  U-Chu-Ka 
would  eat  from  our  hands  and  permit 
us  to  fondle  his  velvet  softness. 

We  came  every  day  after  that,  al- 
ways whistling,  with  choicest  tidbits 
for  our  little  friend.  He  would 
come  into  his  "corner"  hopping  out 
from  the  greenery  like  a  tiny  puff-ball, 


U-CHU-KA 
42 


sit  up  very  primly,  ears  tilted,  his  nose 
wiggling,  until  he  was  sure  it  was  his 
friends.  Then  down  the  trail  toward 
us  he  would  bound,  with  such  long 
hops  that  his  hind  feet  seemed  to  go 
above  his  head.  Oh,  U-Chu-Ka,  little 
brown  one,  if  we  only  had  not  taught 
you  to  have  confidence  in  humans — to 
come  unafraid  when  we  whistled  1 

As  the  summer  went  by,  U-Chu-Ka 
grew  and  grew.  From  a  baby  rabbit 
he  became  a  half-grown  rabbit,  and  we 
realized  that  before  long  he  would  be 
a  very  large  rabbit  indeed.  But  he 
never  failed  to  answer  our  call,  and 
through  the  long  summer  afternoons 
we  would  play  upon  the  hill,  the  three 
of  us.  We  played  house,  U-Chu-Ka 
submitting  without  protest  to  being 
dressed  in  a  doll's  frock,  with  a  tiny 
hat  tying  back  his  ears.  He  was  our 
child,  and  we  rocked  him  to  sleep,  sent 

him  to  school,   disciplined   him  at 


U-CHU-KA 
43 


times,  and  pretended  that  he  talked  to 
us.  If  I  could  only  give  you  a  picture 
of  U-Chu-Ka,  half-grown  now,  in  a 
blue  gingham  doll  dress,  his  brown 
paws  stuck  through  the  short  sleeves, 
his  white  knob  of  a  tail  flashing  impu- 
dently from  behind  when  he  hopped 
about,  and  his  soft  brown  eyes  gro- 
tesquely large  under  the  white  hat  tied 
under  his  chin! 

And  then,  one  day — it  is  a  day  I  do 
not  like  to  think  of — we  decided  that 
U-Chu-Ka  should  have  a  birthday 
party.  So  we  took  cookies,  apples,  and 
lettuce  sandwiches  up  the  hill.  It  was 
hot,  with  scarcely  a  breeze,  and  sounds 
carried  distinctly.  From  far  away  we 
heard  a  whistled  tune,  and  we  knew 
that  some  infrequent  passer-by  was  on 
the  Hill  Trail.  The  sound  grew  louder 
as  we  climbed,  and  then — a  single  shot 
that  sent  echoes  vibrating  against  the 
startled  hills. 


U-CHU-KA 
44 


A  gunshot!  It  was  not  such  an  in- 
frequent sound  through  the  woods  that 
skirted  the  Bay,  but  our  hearts  sud- 
denly contracted  as  if  a  hand  had 
clutched  them. 

We  said  not  a  word  to  each  other, 
but  broke  into  a  jogging  trot  that 
brought  us  hot  and  panting  to  the  top 
of  the  hill.  From  there  it  was  but  a 
hundred  yards  or  so  to  U-Chu-Ka's 
corner,  and  we  ran  doggedly,  with  a 
great  fear  tearing  at  our  hearts. 

Oh,  that  moment!  U-Chu-Ka's  cor- 
ner was  empty — but  perhaps  he  would 
come  if  we  whittled!  We  tried  to 
form  our  dry  lips  for  the  sound,  but 
none  came.  For  we  saw  simultane- 
ously, in  the  little  clearing,  a  bright 
red  patch  on  the  low-hanging  ferns — 
a  little  tuft  of  brown  fur  and  a  bit  of 
white  down. 

The  hunter  had  come  and  gone. 
U-Chu-Ka  could  not  have  known  that 


the  long  stick  pointed  at  him  was  filled 
with  flame  and  death.  We  could  pic- 
ture the  scene  so  well — the  man,  swing- 
ing carelessly  down  along  the  trail 
whistling,  the  gun  over  his  shoulder — 
a  sudden  halt  as  a  little  brown  rabbit 
hopped  out  from  the  underbrush  into 
the  small  clearing  and  raised  himself 
inquisitively  on  his  haunches — a  flash 
— a  bundle  of  limp  fur,  blood-stained 
— a  little  brown  pelt  dangling  pathet- 
ically down  from  a  leather  belt.  Per- 
haps the  man  whistled  again  as  he 
went  down  the  trail.  He  could  not 
know  that  two  children,  back  by  the 
little  clearing,  were  sobbing  their 
hearts  out  with  their  faces  buried  in 
the  cool,  green  moss,  because  of  a  play- 
mate who  would  come  no  more. 

We  tamed  no  more  rabbits,  Brother 
and  I.  We  felt  that  we  had  been  the 
cause  of  our  friend's  death,  and  the 
least  we  could  do  was  to  refrain  from 


putting  confidence  into  other  woods 
creatures,  to  be  shattered  by  humans 
who  did  not  know  or  care  about  the 
wild  heart. 

And  so  we  planted  twin-flower 
vines  in  the  little  clearing,  and  edged 
it  with  yellow  Johnny-jump-up  plants. 
It  was  our  futile  way  of  saying  to 
U-Chu-Ka  how  sorry  we  were — how 
we  loved  him  and  how  we  missed  him. 

And  today  on  the  Hill  Trail  you 
may  see  U-Chu-Ka's  corner,  grown 
over  a  bit  now,  because  no  one  chops 
away  the  underbrush.  But  still  the 
twin-flowers  and  the  Johnny-jump- 
up's  bloom  there  in  memory  of 
U-Chu-Ka,  the  little  brown  friend 
who  lives  on  in  our  hearts  and  our 
loving  memory. 


Part  Three 


SANCTUARY 


O  doubt  it  was  a  silly  name 
to  give  a  deer — "Leonard" 
— but  Brother  and  I  named 
him  on  the  spur  of  the  mo- 
ment, and,  probably  be- 
cause we  did  not  know  the  Indian 
word  for  "fawn,"  we  resorted  to  the 

47 


\ 


SANC- 
TUARY 
48 


prosaic  title  to  which  our  woods  friend 
learned  to  respond. 

Our  acquaintance  with  Leonard 
began  in  such  a  dramatic  way  and  with 
such  suddenness  that  we  had  no  time 
to  think  about  a  suitable  name — al- 
though we  did  remember  to  name  him 
even  in  the  first  chaotic  moment  of 
meeting.  It  was  a  habit  that  came  to 
us  as  naturally  as  breathing. 

It  was  during  those  days  of  licensed 
killing  known  as  "the  deer  season." 
All  day  long,  from  across  the  bay,  a 
mile  in  width,  came  the  long-drawn- 
out  baying  of  hounds  and  an  occasional 
shot.  On  our  side  of  the  bay,  too,  high 
up  in  the  wooded  hills,  we  could  hear 
the  hounds  at  chase,  and  our  hearts 
were  heavy,  being  weighted  with  fear 
for  the  hunted  things  of  the  woods. 
We  wondered  if  the  hunters  would  find 
the  salt-lick  which  we  had  stumbled 
upon  in  our  wanderings  and  where  we 


SANC- 
TUARY 
49 


had  spent  many  breathless  hours 
watching  for  the  slim-limbed  does  and 
the  antlered  bucks  to  come  and  take 
refreshment. 

We  stood  outside  the  little  log 
cabin,  our  faces  raised  to  the  hills,  our 
hands  clasped  tightly  together,  listen- 
ing shiveringly  to  the  hunting  cry  of 
the  dogs.  They  were  in  full  chase,  we 
knew,  after  some  luckless  deer.  We 
felt  so  helpless,  yet  so  eager  to  help 
protect  our  friends  of  the  wilds.  I 
wonder  if  our  unexpressed  prayer  did 
not  have  something  to  do  with  what 
happened. 

The  baying  of  the  hounds  alternated 
with  the  crash  of  the  underbrush  where 
they  were  running,  men  coming  close 
behind.  The  dogs  were  skirting  the 
top  of  a  hill.  All  at  once  their  baying 
became  a  series  of  whimpering  barks. 
They  were  for  the  moment 
off  the  scent. 


SANC- 
TUARY 
50 


And  then,  down  the  hill,  with  such 
flying  leaps  that  he  scarcely  touched 
the  earth,  came  a  little  deer,  a  fawn, 
heading  straight  for  the  cabin.  Was 
he  mad  with  fear  that  he  sought  the 
home  of  humans?  Or  did  he  know  by 
that  unexplainable  power  which  ani- 
mals have  that  we  were  friends,  that 
we  would  protect  his  life  with  ours — 
did  he,  I  wonder?  For  he  cleared  the 
four-foot  fence  with  a  bound  and 
trotted  up  to  us,  then  stood  trembling, 
his  soft  eyes  glazed  with  fright,  white 
foam  at  the  corners  of  his  mouth. 

This  is  not  a  fiction  story;  I  am  tell- 
ing it  as  it  happened. 

The  little  fawn  thrust  his  hot,  dry 
nose  against  my  hand,  and  when 
Brother  and  I,  recovering  from  our 
petrified  amazement,  put  our  arms 
around  his  velvety  neck,  he  did  not 
shrink  away,  but  pressed  against  us  as 
if  mutely  begging  protection. 


SANC- 
TUARY 
SI 


If  you  have  never  had  a  wild  crea- 
ture throw  itself  upon  your  mercy,  if 
you  have  never  known  the  feeling  of  a 
soft,  brown  deer  body  pressed  against 
yours  in  pleading  and  in  confidence, 
you  can  not  realize  the  wild  thrill  of 
ecstasy  that  went  through  us. 

"His  name  is  Leonard!"  I  found 
breath  to  say,  my  face  against  the  vel- 
vety neck  of  the  little  deer. 

But  Brother,  being  a  man  in  embryo, 
was  thinking  of  sterner  things.  The 
hounds,  he  reminded  me,  would 
shortly  find  the  scent  of  the  deer.  If 
they  came  baying  down  the  hill,  the 
fawn  would  take  fright  and  dart  away 
before  we  could  stop  him. 

It  was  not  a  pleasant  picture,  but 
what  were  we  to  do?  The  short,  whin- 
ing barks  of  the  dogs  had  already 
changed  to  the  long,  triumphant  ca- 
dence of  the  hound  in  full  cry.  They 
would  come  down  the  hill,  the  hunters 


would  claim  Leonard  as  their  game, 
they  would — 

"Meat!"  whispered  Brother  tensely, 
and  cryptic  as  it  may  sound  to  the 
reader  I  understood  perfectly.  I  won- 
dered that  I  had  not  thought  of  it  my- 
self. Brother  outlined  a  plan  of  action 
in  a  few  brief  words  while  the  baby 
deer,  with  knees  wobbling  sadly, 
turned  terror-haunted  eyes  up  the  hill, 
his  delicate  nostrils  quivering,  yet 
made  no  move  to  leave  us. 

It  took  my  best  efforts  to  lead  the 
little  fawn  into  the  shelter  of  the 
brooder  house.  The  scent  was  foreign 
to  anything  he  had  known  before,  and 
the  darkness  terrified  him  anew.  He 
could  not  have  known  that  safety  lay 
within  that  strange  place,  but  he  did 
know — of  that  I  am  sure — that  he 
could  trust  himself  with  me,  for  he 
came,  hesitatingly,  urged  always  by 
my  voice  and  my  hands  gently  caress- 


SANC- 
TUARY 
53 


ing  him.  He  went  with  me,  even 
through  the  door,  into  the  semi-dark- 
ness of  the  frame  brooder  house,  and 
though  when  I  swung  the  door  shut 
he  nervously  leaped  away  from  my 
side,  it  was  to  return  an  instant  later, 
as  if  begging  my  pardon  for  his  invol- 
untary action. 

Brother,  in  the  meantime,  had 
dashed  into  the  kitchen  and  emerged 
as  quickly  with  a  juicy  steak — it  was 
to  have  been  cooked  for  dinner  that 
night — which  he  hacked  into  chunks 
with  his  jackknife  as  he  raced  up  the 
hill. 

With  my  eyes  against  a  crack  I  could 
see  him  panting  upward  to  the  point 
where  Leonard  had  emerged  from  the 
underbrush  of  the  woods. 

And  scarcely  had  he  arrived  when 
a  lean  hound,  with  lolling  tongue  and 
nose  to  the  ground,  burst  from  the 
shrubbery,  uttering  a  long-drawn-out 


SANC- 
TUARY 
54 


bay.  The  little  deer  beside  me  shook 
in  every  limb,  and  I  was  trembling, 
too,  as  if  it  were  I,  not  Leonard,  whom 
the  dogs  were  trailing.  We  crouched 
there  in  the  darkness,  the  wild  thing  of 
the  woods  and  the  child  who  loved  the 
wild  things  of  the  woods,  and  in  those 
tense  moments  I  felt  the  heart  of  the 
baby  deer  pounding  against  my  body. 
Can  you  wonder  why  now,  when  I  see 
the  body  of  a  deer  killed  in  the  hunt, 
I  can  not  congratulate  the  hunter  on 
his  prowess?  I  know  how  the  deer  at 
bay  stood  still  and  trembled!  I  know 
how  his  soft,  brown  eyes  grew  wide 
with  helpless  terror.  I  know  how  his 
heart  pounded  suffocatingly.  And  I 
can  not  be  glad  for  the  hunter;  I  am 
only  sorry  that  he  does  not  understand. 

And  up  on  the  hill  Brother  was  act- 
ing his  part  in  the  drama.  When  the 
first  lean  hound  swung  into  sight,  he 

deftly  tossed  a  chunk  of  red,  juicy 


SANC- 
TUARY 

55 


meat  in  his  pathway.  The  dog  ignored 
the  first  piece,  so  intent  was  he  on  the 
fresh  scent  of  the  deer.  But  another 
chunk  aimed  just  ahead  of  him  was  a 
temptation  not  to  be  withstood,  and  he 
gobbled  it  up,  pausing  a  second  in  his 
chase.  Another  dog  followed  him  out 
of  the  underbrush,  finding  the  first 
piece  of  meat  Brother  had  thrown. 

It  did  not  take  long  for  the  two 
hounds  to  finish  off  the  entire  steak  so 
obligingly  tossed  to  them  by  the  small 
boy  almost  hidden  in  a  clump  of  tall 
ferns.  And  when  it  was  gone,  Leonard 
was  safe,  for  the  dogs,  with  the  smell  of 
fresh  meat  in  their  nostrils,  had  lost  the 
lighter  scent  of  the  little  deer's  flying 
hoofs,  and  they  sniffed  shamefacedly 
and  with  befuddled  yappings,  until  the 
hunters  came  cursing  down  the  hill  and 
crashing  into  the  open,  to  berate  the 
dogs  soundly  for  having  lost  the  game 
— as  they  supposed — in  the  woods. 


SANC- 
TUARY 
56 


They  could  not  know  that  the  little 
boy  in  the  clump  of  ferns,  looking  on 
so  innocently,  was  responsible  for  the 
hounds'  failure,  nor  that  their  game 
was  at  that  instant  held  tightly  in  the 
arms  of  a  little  girl  who  was  shaking 
with  excitement  as  well  as  with  fear, 
lest  something  happen  to  betray  the 
refugee's  hiding-place. 

But  nothing  did.  The  men  stamped 
back  into  the  woods,  taking  the  hounds 
with  them,  and  that  day  at  least  we 
heard  no  more  baying  on  the  hill. 

And  Leonard — we  were  afraid  to 
let  him  go  back  to  the  woods  until  the 
deer  season  had  passed  or  until  he  was 
of  a  size  better  able  to  care  for  himself. 
The  grown-ups  helped  us,  and  we  con- 
trived a  pen  with  wire  netting  over  the 
top  and  sides  as  well,  with  the  brooder 
house  as  shelter  for  nights.  And  here 
we  kept  Leonard  a  willing  prisoner, 
while  the  hounds  bayed  on  the  hills 


and  shots  echoed  across  the  water. 
How  we  wished,  when  we  heard 
them,  that  we  could  make  a  place  of 
refuge  for  every  hunted  thing  in  the 
world  to  come  to  and  be  cared  for. 
But  Leonard  at  least  was  safe,  and  he 
seemed  to  know  it,  too.  Though  he 
trembled  whenever  he  heard  the  long 
hunting  cry  of  the  dogs,  he  did  not 
take  refuge  even  in  the  brooder  house. 
He  knew,  I  think,  that  he  was  in 
sanctuary. 

As  the  days  went  on,  we  released  our 
little  deer  from  his  pen,  first  with  a 
collar  and  a  rope,  and  then  with 
nothing  to  hold  him.  He  followed 
us  like  a  dog,  trotting  beside  us  with 
dainty,  mincing  steps,  sometimes  leap- 
ing ahead  of  us,  turning  to  look  back 
at  us,  his  large  ears  at  an  angle,  his 
slim  young  body  silhouetted  against 
the  green  of  the  woods. 

He    soon    learned    his    name    and 


SANC- 
TUARY 
58 


would  come  bounding  out  to  us 
when  we  called.  We  fed  him  things 
his  ancestors  probably  never  tasted — 
cookies,  apples,  lettuce  leaves,  and 
candy,  in  addition  to  the  grass  and 
tender  leaves  we  brought  him  before 
we  allowed  him  to  accompany  us. 
But  best  of  all  the  dainties  we  gave 
him  was  the  chewing  gum  that  Brother 
in  a  playful  moment  tendered  him. 
Leonard  accepted  it  daintily,  as  was 
his  wont,  and  chewed  it,  as  Brother 
and  I  remarked,  with  an  actual  ex- 
pression of  surprise  coming  into  his 
brown  eyes.  He  chewed  and  chewed. 
Perhaps  he  thought  it  a  new  variety 
of  cud.  At  any  rate,  he  gave  it  his 
hearty  indorsement,  and  after  that  he 
would  nose  in  Brother's  pockets  to  find 
the  stick  of  gum  that  was  always  there 
for  him. 

So    Leonard    became    one    of    our 
happy  family,  and  though  we  knew 


SANC- 
TUARY 
59 


that  sometime  in  the  distant  future  we 
should  have  on  our  hands  the  problem 
of  what  to  do  with  an  antlered  buck 
who  had  forgotten  the  ways  of  the 
woods  and  accepted  those  of  civiliza- 
tion, we  did  not  feel  sorry  about  it, 
being  content  to  dwell  in  the  happy 
present,  while  Leonard  seemed  content 
as  well. 

But  one  night  I  woke  to  find  Broth- 
er's hand  tugging  at  mine.  He  was 
whispering  to  me  that  something  was 
outside  Leonard's  pen — perhaps  it  was 
a  bear  or  a  wildcat  trying  to  get  at  him. 

Foolish  children  we  may  have  been, 
but  we  were  not  cowardly.  It  never 
occurred  to  us  to  rouse  the  grown-ups. 
Leonard  was  our  friend  and  our  re- 
sponsibility. From  my  window  the 
two  of  us  crept  out  on  the  roof,  white 
nightgowned  figures,  shaking  with  cold 
and  excitement.  From  the  roof  we 
dropped  easily  to  the  railing  of  the 


SANC- 
TUARY 
60 


picket  fence  at  the  back  of  the  cabin 
and  from  there  to  the  ground. 

Like  two  little  white  wraiths  we 
crept  along  in  the  shadow  of  the  fence 
until  we  could  see  the  outlines  of  the 
brooder  house  and  the  pen  which  en- 
closed it.  There  was  a  moon,  but  it 
was  thickly  hidden  by  clouds.  All  we 
could  distinguish  was  a  dark  form 
against  the  wire  netting,  a  shape  that 
moved  restlessly,  now  away  from  the 
pen,  now  back  to  it. 

As  our  eyes  became  accustomed  to 
the  darkness,  we  saw  that  Leonard  was 
in  the  pen  outside  the  brooder  house, 
and  we  questioned  each  other  silently. 
Surely  no  deer  would  come  thus  to 
meet  an  enemy  animal  that  wanted  to 
destroy. 

And  then,  as  if  in  answer  to  our 
question,  the  clouds  parted  and  a  pale 
moon  turned  the  darkness  into  half- 
shadowed  light.  With  the  sudden  ef- 


fulgence  came  the  weird  gleam  of 
four  eyes  turned  in  our  direction— 
for  our  scent  had  carried  to  sensitive 
nostrils.   Brother  and  I,  for  an  instant, 
caught  each  other's  hands  and  gasped. 

Then  two  of  the  luminous  lights 
vanished,  as  the  slim  animal  outside 
the  pen  sprang  away  in  great  bounds 
that  carried  her  into  the  shadows  be- 
yond our  ken — but  not  before  we  had 
recognized  the  slim,  fleeing  form  for 
a  doe.  We  knew  it  was  Leonard's 
mother,  who  had  found  her  baby. 

We  climbed  back  into  our  window 
as  silently  as  we  had  left  it.  Brother 
in  his  cot,  and  I  in  mine,  stared  up  into 
the  darkness,  trying  to  tell  ourselves 
that  ours  was  the  right  to  keep  the  fawn 
we  had  befriended,  yet  knowing  that 
the  mother  heart  was  calling  for  the 
little  brown  deer  whom  we  loved  so 
well.  And  we  knew  that  in  the 
end  we  must  relinquish  our  claim — 


SANC- 
TUARY 
62 


Leonard,  after  all,  belonged  to  the 
woods,  and  the  mother  heart  of  the 
woods  was  calling. 

Because  we  loved  him  so,  we  tried 
to  pretend,  the  next  day,  that  the 
deer  we  had  seen  was  not  Leonard's 
mother — that  it  was  merely  a  friend 
from  the  woods  who  had  come  down 
by  moonlight  to  pay  a  nocturnal  call. 
In  our  hearts,  though,  we  knew  better. 
Leonard  all  the  day  was  restless;  he 
pricked  his  ears  continually  as  if 
waiting  for  a  voice  from  the  forest. 
We  could  scarcely  coax  him  out  of  his 
distrait  mood,  even  with  a  double 
ration  of  the  chewing  gum  he  loved  so 
well. 

The  next  night  sleep  was  impossible. 
Though  we  heard  nothing,  we  knew, 
somehow,  that  outside  Leonard's  pen 
was  a  slim  brown  body  pressed  close 
against  the  wire  netting.  We  rose,  at 
last,  and  crept  out  over  the  roof  and 


SANC- 
TUARY 
63 


down  to  the  ground.  The  doe  was 
there,  as  we  had  foreseen.  At  our  ap- 
proach she  bounded  away  with  only 
the  faintest  rustle  of  leaves  and  snap- 
ping of  twigs  to  mark  her  progress. 
But  knowing  that  she  would  not  go  far 
— that  she  would  come  back  to  her 
baby — Brother  and  I  went  quickly 
forward  and  opened  the  door  of  the 
pen. 

Leonard  came  to  us  and  thrust  his 
nose  against  my  hand.  We  knelt  on 
the  ground,  putting  our  arms  around 
him,  pressing  our  faces  against  his  soft, 
brown  neck,  telling  him  with  tears  be- 
hind our  whispered  words  that  he 
must  go  with  his  mother,  that  the 
danger  season  was  passed,  and  that  he 
was  free  to  go  back  to  his  kindred. 

We  stole  away,  but  Leonard  fol- 
lowed us,  as  if  asking  where  we  went 
and  why  he  was  not  to  go  with  us. 
For  the  first  time  we  pushed  him  away 


from  us,  though  you  can  not  know 
what  it  meant  to  us  to  do  it.  He  stood 
still  then,  as  if  wondering,  perhaps  a 
little  hurt,  and  we,  not  daring  to  look 
back,  ran  for  the  fence,  clambered 
upon  it,  and  gained  the  roof. 

Once  there,  we  could  not  resist 
watching  a  bit,  and  it  was  not  long 
before  the  two  luminous  eyes  gleamed 
from  the  underbrush.  Then  we  saw  a 
shapely,  dark  body  come  slowly  into 
the  open,  and  Leonard,  with  light, 
springing  bounds,  had  rushed  to  meet 
his  mother.  For  an  instant  we  saw 
again  the  glowing  orbs  of  two  pairs  of 
eyes.  Then  the  lights  vanished;  two 
dark  bodies  moved  side  by  side  into 
the  blackness  of  the  woods;  we  heard 
the  light  crackle  of  underbrush;  and 
then  silence. 

Silently  we  crept  into  our  beds,  and 
long  afterward  I  heard  Brother's 
choking  whisper  coming  through  the 


darkness — my  own  face  was  buried  in 
the  pillow: 

"I  know — Leonard's  going  to  miss 
—his — gum— 

We  cried  ourselves  to  sleep  that 
night,  thinking  of  an  empty  pen  and  of 
a  little  brown  friend  gone  from  us  for- 
ever. 


SANC- 
TUARY 


65 


questionlngly  sniffed  the  breeze. 


Part  Four 


THE  FAERY  NIGHT 


HERE  came  a  night  in 
June  when  the  moon 
rose  a  great,  yellow  ball 
of  light  over  the  fir 
trees  that  crowned  the 
hill.  It  was  a  night  for  adventure,  for 
magic  and  mystery.  And  I,  wide 
awake  on  the  camp  cot  in  the  front 
yard  of  the  cabin,  listened  to  the  faint 
lapping  of  the  water  upon  the  beach 
not  a  single  stone's-throw  away,  and  to 
the  wordless  song  of  the  pine  trees  as 
the  night  wind  swept  drowsy  fingers 
across  their  branches — harps  that  woke 
to  melody  only  when  the  daylight  had 
gone  and  the  stars  stole  out  to  listen  to 
their  song.  The  puffy  maple  tree 
which  guarded  the  little  log  cabin  was 
murmuring  softly  to  itself,  its  leaves 
nodding  to  each  other  as  if  confiding 

67 


FAERY 

NIGHT 

68 


some  wonderful  secret,  and  the  giant 
fir  tree  on  the  other  side  of  the  porch 
stood  erect  and  motionless  as  if  it  were 
a  sentinel  and  thus  disdained  to  gossip. 

From  far  out  in  the  bay  came  faint 
splashes  which  told  of  salmon  leaping, 
and  now  and  then  the  distant  cry  of  a 
night  bird,  so  faint  as  to  be  only  the 
shadow  of  a  sound.  In  the  air  was  the 
smell  of  grass  freshly  wet  with  dew, 
of  pine  trees  drenched  and  glistening, 
of  wild  syringa  on  the  hillside,  and, 
more  pronounced,  the  scent  of  the  tiny 
Mother  of  God  roses  that  clambered 
over  the  cabin  in  a  white  and  fragrant 
wreath. 

The  stars  were  bright  as  the  tears  of 
angels,  from  which  the  Chinook  In- 
dians say  they  were  made,  and  the 
moon  in  their  midst  flooded  hill  and 
bay  with  a  silvery  light  made  more  in- 
tense by  the  blackness  of  the  forest. 

Somehow  there  was  a  hint  of  expec- 


FAERY 
NIGHT 


tancy  in  the  air,  as  if  the  summer  had 
looked  forward  to  this  one  night  and 
was  a-thrill  with  the  joy  of  its  coming. 
I  could  not  sleep,  for  I  was  attuned  to 
the  things  of  the  out-of-doors,  and  I, 
too,  was  a-thrill  with  the  expectation  of 
something — I  knew  not  what. 

I  watched  Altair  rise  over  the 
"Happy  Family"  pines  with  his  two 
attendant  stars  that  are  like  the  out- 
spread wings  of  an  eagle,  and  I  kissed 
my  hand  to  him  in  greeting. 

A  star  fell,  leaving  a  trailing  line  of 
light  in  its  wake,  and  suddenly  I  felt 
a  little  sad,  for  a  Siwash  Indian  chief 
had  told  us  that  when  a  star  fell,  it  was 
a  flower  tossed  by  the  hand  of  a  good 
spirit  from  Paradise  to  ease  the  pain 
of  a  soul  passing  out  into  the  Great 
Darkness. 

Then  Amarillo,  the  big  yellow  cat, 
padded  across  the  grass  with  little 
throaty  mewings  of  greeting,  and  I 


felt  the  light  thud  of  his  body  as  he 
leaped  on  the  bed  and  settled  himself 
at  my  feet.  He,  too,  was  restless,  for 
he  would  raise  and  lower  his  tawny 
head  and  would  sometimes  turn  his 
golden  eyes  upon  me  as  if  seeking  an 
explanation  for  the  thrill  that  was  in 
the  night. 

So  I  was  not  surprised  when  I  heard 
a  faint,  familiar  scraping  which  told 
me  that  Brother  had  climbed  from  his 
bedroom  window  and  was  sliding 
down  the  roof  to  the  fence. 

Since  we  had  only  one  camp  cot, 
Brother  and  I  must  needs  take  turns 
sleeping  out  of  doors.  And  although 
this  night  was  mine,  I  knew  that  he, 
too,  had  felt  its  magic  and  could  not 
abide  the  stuffy  darkness  of  the  cabin 
when  the  world  outside  was  bathed  in 
moonlight.  He  came  tiptoeing  around 
the  corner  of  the  house  very  quietly  so 
as  not  to  waken  the  grown-ups,  and 
Amarillo  purred  loudly  as  he  saw  him 


FAERY 

NIGHT 

71 


come,  and  dug  his  claws  into  the 
bedclothes  with  contented,  prickling 
sounds. 

Brother  was  fully  dressed,  and  he 
put  his  lips  close  to  my  ear  as  he  whis- 
pered :  "Do  you  know  what  kind  of 
a  night  this  is?" 

"No,"  I  answered  breathlessly. 

"A  fairy  night!"  he  breathed  with 
awe.  "The  old  fisherman  told  me  that 
on  moonlight  nights  the  fairies  dance 
in  the  moss  ring  on  the  Hill  Trail. 
Come  quick,  let's  go!" 

I  needed  no  second  bidding.  Even 
as  he  spoke,  I  was  drawing  over  my 
head  the  knee-length  dress  I  had  worn 
during  the  day,  and  was  feeling  for  my 
moccasins  tucked  away  from  the  dew 
under  the  rubber  covering  of  the  bed. 

Hand  in  hand  we  slipped  out  of  the 
yard  and  up  the  trail,  moving  as 
silently  as  wraiths.  Amarillo  followed 
to  the  edge  of  the  woods  and  then 
slipped  away  on  business  of  his  own. 


FAERY 

NIGHT 

72 


Up  the  hill  we  hurried,  up  the  nar- 
row trail  patched  with  moonlight  and 
shadows.  The  wet  branches  of  the 
pines  brushed  across  our  faces;  our 
bare  legs  were  swished  by  fern  fronds 
as  we  passed.  Sometimes  a  twig 
crackled  underfoot,  and  now  and  then 
we  heard  a  slight  rustling  in  the  under- 
brush where  a  little  animal  was 
moving. 

We  passed  by  the  spring  which  gur- 
gled dreamily  into  the  pool  shadowed 
by  ferns  and  alders.  A  mother  deer 
and  her  baby  were  drinking  there,  and 
although  they  turned  their  great  eyes 
upon  us,  luminous  in  the  moonlight 
that  sifted  through  the  branches,  they 
did  not  start  or  run  as  we  stole  by. 

The  top  of  the  hill  was  gained  at 
last,  and  the  Hill  Trail  which  we 
called  ours.  Well  we  knew  the  fairy 
ring,  a  circle  of  moss  in  a  clearing, 
ringed  around  with  pink  twin-flowers 


FAERY 

NIGHT 

73 


and  wild  strawberry  vines,  a  fitting 
place  for  elfin  feet  to  dance  on  a  moon- 
light night.  And  as  we  neared  the 
clearing  flooded  by  the  bright  moon- 
light, we  trembled  with  ecstasy  and 
anticipation.  That  the  fairies  did 
dance  there  we  never  doubted,  but 
would  they  reveal  themselves  to  the 
eyes  of  mortals,  even  such  friendly 
mortals  as  ourselves? 

Crouched  behind  a  cedar  log  and 
screened  by  salal  bushes,  we  watched 
and  waited,  our  eyes  glued  to  the  moss 
ring  in  the  patch  of  moon  silver — but 
no  fairies  came. 

Just  the  same  it  'was  a  fairy  night,  as 
you  shall  see.  For  presently  a  little 
brown  bear  came  out  into  the  clearing, 
making  considerably  more  noise  than 
his  size  warranted,  sat  up  on  his 
haunches,  and  sniffed  the  breeze  ques- 
tioningly.  He  nibbled  daintily  at  the 
leaves  of  a  red  huckleberry  bush,  and 


FAERY 

NIGHT 

74 


having  finished  his  nocturnal  repast, 
walked  pigeon-toed  over  to  a  cedar 
tree,  scratched  his  back  against  it, 
making  rumbling  noises  of  content, 
and  finally  raised  himself  to  his  full 
height — which  was  not  so  high  after 
all — and  marked  how  tall  he  was  on 
the  shaggy  bark  of  the  tree  by  scratch- 
ing it  deeply  with  his  claws.  Then  he 
waddled  away  in  his  bow-legged  fash- 
ion, and  we  heard  the  faint  crashing  of 
the  underbrush  as  he  passed  through. 

There  came  a  wakeful  brown  rabbit, 
who  hopped  into  the  very  center  of  the 
fairy  ring,  wiggled  his  ears  and  nose, 
and  then  began  to  make  an  elaborate 
toilet — in  honor,  we  thought,  of  the 
elfin  ball.  He  washed  his  paws  with 
care  and  gave  each  tapering  ear  a 
thorough  massage.  Last,  he  twisted 
like  a  contortionist  to  assure  himself 
that  his  white  knob  of  a  tail  was  in  per- 
fect order,  and  finally  being  satis- 


fied  with  his  inspection,  he  loped 
leisurely  away  without  so  much  as 
the  crackle  of  a  twig. 

The  next  two  visitors  to  the  moonlit 
clearing  were  two  baby  skunks  striped 
with  brown  and  white  and  with  grace- 
ful tufts  of  white  for  tails.  Strangely 
enough,  Brother  and  I  were  not  afraid 
of  what  might  happen  should  they  sud- 
denly be  aware  of  our  presence  and  be- 
come frightened,  for  it  seemed  to  us 
that  we  too  belonged  to  the  fairy  night 
and  that  nothing  could  happen  to  mar 
the  perfect  beauty  of  it.  The  little 
animals  played  like  kittens,  dashing  out 
at  each  other  from  the  shadows  and 
rolling  about  in  mock  ferocity,  but 
presently  they,  too,  stole  away,  silently, 
as  wood  creatures  move,  and  we  were 
left  alone  with  the  moonlit  night  and 
the  empty  fairy  ring. 

Then  from  the  direction  of  the  trail 
came  a  cry  of  pain — like  a  human  cry. 


The  spell  of  the  night  was  shattered, 
and  we  gripped  each  other's  hands  and 
thought  of  flight.  But  again  came  the 
sound,  a  whimpering  cry  like  a  child 
in  distress,  and  the  fear  which  had 
clutched  at  our  hearts  vanished  as  sud- 
denly, for  we  knew  it  must  be  an  ani- 
mal— some  woods  friend  sorely  hurt. 
So  without  further  pause  we  left  the 
shelter  of  the  log  and  hurried  across 
the  clearing  to  the  trail.  The  sound 
came  from  beyond  the  "Happy  Fam- 
ily" pines,  and  we  hastened  toward  it. 
In  the  lumber  clearing  just  off  the 
trail  we  found  what  we  had  half  ex- 
pected— a  young  fox  caught  in  a  steel 
trap  by  his  front  paws,  and  he  was 
whimpering  with  the  pain  of  it.  The 
dark  eyes  which  he  turned  toward  us 
showed  a  frenzied,  greenish  light,  and 
as  we  came  nearer,  he  yelped  sharply, 
tugging  frantically  at  the  sharp  teeth 
which  never  relaxed  their  grip, 


FAERY 

NIGHT 

77 


The  pity  in  our  hearts  made  us  for- 
getful of  his  fear,  but  as  we  started 
toward  him,  he  wrenched  backward, 
dragging  the  heavy  trap  to  the  full 
length  of  the  chain,  his  small,  gray- 
brown  body  a-quiver  with  terror  and 
pain.  So  then  we  waited,  approaching 
very  quietly  and  slowly.  Finally  his 
struggles  ceased  from  sheer  fatigue, 
and  the  eyes  which  he  turned  upon  us 
were  dull  and  lifeless.  Brother  tried 
to  hold  me  back,  but  I  would  not  have 
it  so,  and  coming  very  close  to  the  little 
fox,  I  put  my  hand  on  his  soft,  furry 
head.  He  did  not  bite  or  even  cringe. 
Perhaps  his  pain  was  so  great  that  he 
could  suffer  no  more  and  so  could  not 
be  afraid,  or  perhaps  it  was  because  he 
sensed  that  my  touch  was  a  friendly 
one  and  that  help  was  near  at  hand. 

Together  Brother  and  I  pried  the 
steel  jaws  apart,  and  the  little  fox,  set 
free,  limped  away  for  a  few  feet  and 


FAERY 

NIGHT 

78 


then  fell  exhausted.  So  I  picked  him 
up,  and  walking  quietly  so  as  not  to 
hurt  or  alarm  him,  we  sought  again  the 
forest  pool,  mottled  now  with  deep 
shadows  and  pale  lights.  The  mother 
deer  and  her  baby  had  gone,  and  in 
the  cool,  gurgling  water  of  the  little 
stream  we  bathed  the  wounded  feet  of 
our  friend  and  named  him  "Reginald." 
We  made  sure  that  the  paws  were  not 
broken,  only  lacerated  by  the  sharp 
teeth  of  the  trap,  and  when  he  began 
to  stir  and  move  his  head  in  quick 
jerks  from  side  to  side,  we  set  him 
down  on  the  cool  moss.  After  a  little 
while  he  commenced  to  lick  the  hurt 
paws,  very  gently  at  first  and  then 
with  increasing  confidence,  and  he  did 
not  go  away  at  once.  He  feared  us  no 
more  than  he  would  have  feared  a 
brother  and  sister  fox.  So  for  an  hour, 
until  the  moonlight  gleams  became 
fainter  and  the  shadows  deeper,  the 


FAERY 

NIGHT 

79 


three  of  us  lingered  by  the  forest  pool. 
Brother  and  I  pretended  that  Reginald 
talked  to  us  and  that  he  could  under- 
stand what  we  said  to  him.  And  when 
finally  he  finished  licking  his  paws  and 
slipped  away  into  the  darkness,  we 
regained  once  more  the  moonlit  Hill 
Trail  and  started  for  home. 

But  there  was  one  thing  we  must  do, 
and  we  turned  back  to  "Reginald's 
clearing,"  as  we  called  it.  In  the 
waning  light  we  found  the  trap  which 
had  so  cruelly  hurt  our  little  friend, 
and  we  unwound  the  chain  from  the 
tree.  Into  the  blackness  of  the  under- 
brush we  flung  it  and  laughed  defiantly 
as  we  heard  it  crash  in  the  thicket. 
Then,  as  if  some  avenging  power  were 
hard  on  our  heels,  we  fled  down  the 
trail  out  of  the  wood  and  stole  into  the 
yard  without  even  the  creaking  of  a 
gate  to  betray  us. 

Thrilled   to   the  very   core  of  my 


FAERY 

NIGHT 

80 


being,  I  huddled  into  bed.  And  Ama- 
rillo,  who  had  long  since  returned, 
arched  his  back  and  yawned  widely  as 
if  to  imply  that  such  a  nocturnal  ex- 
cursion was  not  respectable. 

Brother  started  to  tiptoe  around  to 
the  fence  and  thus  gain  the  roof  and 
his  bedroom,  but  I  stopped  him  with 
a  sharp  hiss,  and  he  tiptoed  back  to  me. 

"What  shall  we  say  if  some  hunter 
asks  us  about  the  trap?"  I  breathed 
into  his  ear,  and  he  doubled  up  and 
laughed  noiselessly. 

"We  will  tell  him  that  anything  can 
happen  on  a  fairy  night,"  he  whispered 
back  and  stole  away  to  the  fence,  while 
I  watched  the  moon  settle  behind  the 
distant  blue  hills,  and  with  the  ensuing 
darkness  came  the  breath  of  the  morn- 
ing breeze.  The  fairy  night  was  over. 


Part    Five 


THE 

FRIENDSHIP 
THAT  FAILED 

N  THE  shores  of  Puget 
Sound,  where  the  woods 
come  down  to  the  shore 
to  fraternize  with  the 
little  white-capped  waves 
of  the  bay,  lived  Henry,  the  heron. 
How  old  he  was  before  Brother  and  I 
came  to  know  him,  we  could  not  tell. 
But  an  old-man  bird  he  must  have 
been  surely,  for  his  was  a  knowledge 
of  fishing  that  comes  from  long  ex- 
perience. 

Every   day   we   would   watch   him 
82 


from  our  little  log  cabin — watch  him 
sail  majestically  toward  the  float,  pause 
directly  above,  and  flap  down  upon  it, 
using  his  lanky  legs  as  balancing 
weights.  He  would  stand  there  for 
many  moments,  turning  his  head 
slightly  from  side  to  side  as  if  revolv^ 
ing  in  his  mind  whether  he  had  done 
the  wise  thing  in  coming,  and  what  his 
next  move  ought  to  be. 

Such  a  deliberate  bird  Henry 
seemed,  but  this  apparent  deliberation 
was  only  one  of  the  tricks  of  his  trade. 
I  am  sure  that  had  I  been  a  fish,  I 
would  have  believed  there  was  nothing 


Ctnnon  came  charging 
in  a  whirlwind  of 
feathers. 


HENRY 
84 


to  fear  from  the  immobile  bunch  of 
gray  feathers  balanced  on  two  skinny 
stilt  legs,  and  I  would  have  swum  mer- 
rily under  the  very  tip  of  his  beak. 
But  Henry's  sharp,  black  eyes  missed 
nothing,  as  the  hapless  fish  found  to 
their  cost  when  they  ventured  too  near 
the  surface.  With  one  lightning  swoop 
the  great  bill  cleaved  the  water,  and 
the  next  instant  a  shiny  fish  was  wrig- 
gling in  his  beak. 

Sometimes  he  did  his  fishing  while 
standing  in  the  water  up  to  his  knees — 
or  where  his  knees  would  be  if  herons 
had  such  things.  With  his  head  drawn 
in  between  his  feathered  shoulders  and 
his  long  beak  sticking  out  at  right 
angles  like  a  lance  at  rest,  he  seemed  to 
be  taking  a  siesta,  and  only  the  occa- 
sional plunge  of  his  long  bill  into  the 
water,  and  the  accompanying  twinkle 
of  a  small  silver  fish  as  it  flapped  in 
amazement  before  it  slid  down  into  his 


HENRY 

85 


gullet,  proved  that  he  was  awake — and 
hungry. 

We  gave  Henry  his  name  when  he 
was  but  an  acquaintance  of  ours.  We 
never  really  hoped  to  have  him  for  a 
friend,  but  we  liked  him,  and  we  felt 
that  he  liked  us,  too.  So  when  he  did 
his  fishing  on  our  float  or  knee-deep  in 
the  water  of  the  little  cove  before  the 
cabin,  we  threw  scraps  of  bread  to  him, 
which  he  accepted  gravely  and  always 
dipped  in  the  salt  water  before  swal- 
lowing. 

We  used  to  hear  his  strange,  mourn- 
ful cry  late  at  night  as  he  flew  north- 
ward past  the  cove  on  his  way  to  the 
pine-tree  where  he  lived,  and  we 
always  pretended  he  was  giving  us  a 
greeting  before  he  turned  in  for  the 
night. 

We  found  out,  too,  where  he  made 
his  home.  We  had  often  seen  him  land 
on  a  bony,  fallen  tree  half  a  mile  up  the 


beach,  which  jutted  straight  out  into 
the  water  and  which  we  called  "the 
Pointing  Finger."  Once,  in  our  ex- 
plorations along  the  beach  trail,  we 
saw  Henry  standing  on  the  gray  shaft 
of  the  dead  tree,  and  as  we  watched,  he 
stooped  slightly,  then  flapped  upward 
and  flew  into  a  tall  pine  tree  almost  in 
front  of  us.  When  we  stood  under  it, 
we  could  distinguish  the  outlines  of  a 
nest  high  up  in  the  branches.  Perhaps 
at  that  time  there  was  a  Mrs.  Henry 
and  maybe  some  young  Henrys — I  do 
not  know.  But  certain  it  was  that  when 
he  became  a  friend  of  ours  by  reason 
of  a  happening  which  might  have 
ended  in  tragedy  for  him,  he  seemed  to 
be  without  family  cares  or  responsi- 
bilities. 

During  the  season  when  the  salmon 
were  running,  the  Old  Fisherman,  who 
was  at  once  our  mentor  and  playfel- 
low, spread  his  nets  from  the  shore-line 


straight  out  into  the  bay  for  a  hundred 
yards,  leaving  them  there  the  night 
through  to  catch  the  large  silver 
salmon  on  their  way  to  the  creeks  to 
spawn.  One  of  these  nights  he  had  laid 
his  net  near  the  Pointing  Finger,  and 
Brother  and  I,  going  with  him  in  his 
creaky,  flat-bottomed  boat  to  see  the 
result  of  the  haul,  heard  ahead  of  us  a 
great  splashing,  and  saw  dimly  out- 
lined in  the  midst  of  the  cork  floats  a 
dark  body  that  flapped  and  struggled. 

We  whispered  excitedly  that  per- 
haps a  seal  had  become  entangled  in 
the  net,  but  the  Old  Fisherman  thought 
it  only  a  salmon,  or  perhaps  a  dogfish 
whose  pointed  snout  had  been  caught 
in  the  meshes  of  the  cords. 

But  it  was  neither  seal  nor  salmon, 
for  on  rowing  close  to  the  net  we  saw 
by  the  light  of  the  Old  Fisherman's 
lantern  a  huge,  gray  bird  with  flapping 
wings  and  slashing  beak.  It  was 


Henry,  the  heron,  who  had  alighted  on 
one  of  the  cork  floaters,  perhaps  think- 
ing it  safe  footing,  and  had  thus  be- 
come hopelessly  snared  in  the  net. 

What  was  even  worse,  he  had  hurt 
himself  cruelly  in  his  struggles,  for  one 
long  leg  was  dangling  helplessly,  and 
one  of  his  wide  gray  wings  hung  limp 
at  his  side.  When  the  Old  Fisherman, 
with  gruff  words  but  tender  hands,  re- 
leased him  from  the  cords  which  bound 
him,  he  could  not  fly,  but  flapped  help- 
lessly upon  the  water.  And  so  it  was 
that  we  lifted  him  into  the  boat  and 
tied  a  gunnysack  around  him  so  that  he 
should  not  injure  himself  further,  for 
he  did  not  understand  that  our  inten- 
tions were  kindly  and  snapped  at  us 
fiercely  with  his  huge  beak. 

The  Old  Fisherman,  who  had  lived 
with  the  Indians  and  who  had  ac- 
quired their  curative  gifts,  took  Henry, 
the  heron,  in  charge  when  we  reached 


the  little  cabin  in  the  cove,  first  muz- 
zling him  by  tying  a  stout  cord  about 
his  beak.  Then  he  set  the  broken  wing 
and  put  the  leg  in  splints.  The  grown- 
ups suggested  putting  Henry  in  the 
hen-house  for  the  night,  but  Brother 
and  I  would  not  have  it  so,  and  with 
their  help  we  constructed  a  pen  behind 
the  kitchen  stove  where  he  could  be 
warm  and  comfortable.  We  left  him 
moving  his  head  jerkily  from  side  to 
side,  blinking  his  beady  eyes  now  and 
then  and  snapping  his  bill  as  if  in  trou- 
bled retrospect. 

But  during  the  next  week  Henry,  the 
heron,  came  to  know  that  we  were  his 
friends  and  that  he  had  nothing  to  fear 
from  us.  He  allowed  us  to  stroke  him 
and  would  accept  morsels  of  food 
from  our  fingers,  even  taking  care  not 
to  nip  us  with  his  powerful  beak. 

When  he  had  finally  ceased  to  fear 
us,  we  gave  him  the  liberty  of  the  back- 


HENRY 
90 


yard,  and  he  would  stalk  about  stiffly 
like  a  peg-legged  veteran  of  the  wars. 
But  most  of  the  time  he  would  stand 
with  his  head  drawn  in  between  his 
shoulders,  the  picture  of  dejection,  and 
Brother  and  I  knew  he  was  longing  for 
the  freedom  of  the  air  and  the  water 
which  had  been  his.  He  was  longing 
for  the  cool  lapping  of  little  waves 
against  his  legs,  for  the  silver  gleam 
of  fish  in  the  blue  depths;  and  he 
wanted  to  fly  once  more — to  circle  over 
the  bay,  to  flap  down  upon  the  Point- 
ing Finger.  Perhaps  he  was  even  lone- 
some for  the  nest  in  the  pine-tree.  At 
any  rate  we  were  sorry  for  his  sadness 
and  set  about  to  remedy  it  as  best  we 
could.  We  fished  indefatigably  from 
the  float,  and  the  Old  Fisherman 
brought  us  smelts  and  silver  perch 
from  his  nets. 

Then,  to  make  our  guest  feel  more 
at  home,  we  would  put  our  catch  in  a 


wash-tub  filled  with  water,  and 
Henry  would  fish  for  them  choos- 
ing his  prey  with  calculating  eye  an 
gobbling  it  up  with  one  great  peck. 
It  was  the  best  we  could  do  for  him, 
and  we  felt  that  he  appreciated  that, 
too,  for  he  obligingly  hunted  down 
every  fish  in  the  tub,  and  then  would 
turn  his  grave  head  toward  us,  giv- 
ing us  the  broadside  effect  of  one  shiny 
eye,  whether  in  thanks  or  in  petition 
for  more  we  could  not  determine. 

But  it  was  really  due  to  Cannon,  our 
bantam  rooster,  that  Henry's  convales- 
cence was  not  entirely  unendurable. 
Cannon  was  the  eldest  son  of  Liberty,  a 
small  bantam  hen  who  had  brought 
forth  her  brood  on  the  fourth  of  July — 
hence  her  name  and  his.  He  was  the 
undisputed  king  of  the  poultry  yard, 
for  a  strain  of  game  cock  in  his  blood 
had  made  him  fearless  of  everything 
and  an  unspeakable  bully.  There  was 


HENRY 

92 


no  hen  or  cock  of  twice  his  size  who 
dared  come  near  his  end  of  the  feed 
trough,  and  even  Prince,  the  mammoth 
White  Rock  rooster,  stood  in  awe  of 
him.  Perhaps  he  was  merely  amused 
at  the  airs  Cannon  gave  himself,  and 
so  let  the  tiny  cock  have  his  way,  but 
at  any  rate  his  record  of  combat  was 
unsullied  by  a  single  defeat. 

I  have  seen  many  a  strange  friend- 
ship between  animals  and  between 
birds,  too,  but  never  one  so  curious 
as  that  of  Henry,  the  heron,  and  Can- 
non, the  bantam  rooster.  For  friends 
they  were,  and  real  friends,  too.  They 
became  acquainted  when  Cannon,  fly- 
ing into  the  back-yard  one  day,  spied 
the  stiff-legged  Henry  and  immedi- 
ately decided  to  do  battle  with  him. 
He  ruffled  up  his  neck  feathers, 
whirled  round  and  round  with  one 
wing  dusting  the  ground,  and  advanc- 
ing on  Henry,  dared  him  to  come  on 


HENRY 
93 


and  fight.  At  first  Brother  and  I 
thought  to  rescue  Cannon  from  what 
we  believed  would  be  his  sure  death. 
But  we  were  wrong;  for  Henry  re- 
garded the  little  brown  cock  contem- 
platively, snapped  his  bill  in  warning, 
then  blinked  and  turned  away  as  if 
overcome  with  boredom.  But  Cannon 
was  not  used  to  being  ignored.  If  his 
enemies  would  not  fight,  they  must  at 
least  give  way  before  him.  So  his  neck 
ruff  distended  more  and  more,  his  tiny 
comb  glowed  an  angry  red,  and  in  his 
best  game-cock  fashion  he  hopped  up 
and  down  stiffly,  trying  to  strike  at  the 
heron's  broad,  feathered  breast  above 
him. 

Henry  eyed  him  curiously,  almost 
saturninely,  and  at  last  with  a  sort  of 
wearied  annoyance  gave  one  sweep  of 
his  broad  bill,  and  Cannon  was  sent 
tumbling  in  a  scurry  of  brown  feathers 
and  outraged  squawks.  But  he  was  a 


warrior;  back  he  came  in  a  series  of 
frenzied  leaps,  and  once  more  Henry's 
massive  bill  swept  him  lightly  but  con- 
clusively aside. 

Time  after  time,  to  the  number  of 
twelve,  Cannon  came  charging  in  a 
whirlwind  of  feathers,  trying  to  slash 
the  feathered  breast  of  his  passive 
enemy,  always  to  be  met  by  the  calm 
but  decisive  buffet  of  Henry's  beak. 
At  last  it  was  a  wearied  little  bantam 
cock  who  stopped  pantingly  and  turned 
his  back  upon  the  gray  heron,  owning 
himself  defeated. 

Perhaps  it  was  respect  for  Henry's 
superior  prowess  which  actuated  Can- 
non, and  perhaps  the  merry  little  ban- 
tam's pluck  appealed  to  the  grave 
fisher  bird,  for  they  became  almost  at 
once  inseparable  friends.  Cannon  de- 
serted his  feathered  acquaintances  and 
spent  his  time  in  the  back-yard  with 
Henry.  When  finally  the  invalid  was 


HENRY 
95 


well  enough  to  hobble  down  on  the 
float,  Cannon  went  with  him  and  would 
stand  beside  him  while  Henry,  the 
heron,  swooped  joyfully  upon  minnows 
and  silver  smelt  and  gobbled  them 
down  with  a  zest  he  had  never  dis- 
played when  fishing  in  the  washtub. 
Such  became  the  intimacy  of  the  tall 
Henry  and  the  diminutive  Cannon  that 
Henry  would  even  share  his  catch 
with  Cannon,  dropping  down  upon  the 
float  a  small,  wriggling  fish  for  Can- 
non's delectation. 

We  noticed  that  at  first  the  bantam 
rooster  eyed  askance  the  flapping  tid- 
pits  offered  by  his  friend.  He  was  not 
accustomed  to  such  lively  food,  but 
little  by  little  he  learned  to  peck  and 
devour  the  fish  with  the  same  relish 
that  Henry  showed  for  them.  He  be- 
came a  feathered  parasite,  depending 
almost  entirely  upon  the  heron  for  his 
meals. 


HENRY 
96 


It  was  such  a  pleasant  friendship — 
comradeship  between  man  and  man 
always  is — and  it  was  broken  up,  I  am 
sorry  to  say,  in  the  usual  way — by  a 
woman. 

As  Henry  grew  stronger,  his  leg  and 
wing  knit  rapidly.  And  on  the  day 
when  the  Old  Fisherman  removed  the 
bandages  and  pronounced  the  patient 
out  of  danger,  we  feared  our  heron 
friend  would  leave  us.  But  he  did  not. 
He  had  become  accustomed  to  the 
float,  to  the  cabin,  to  the  yard,  and  to 
Brother  and  me.  Above  all,  there  was 
Cannon,  the  bantam  rooster.  So  he 
stayed  with  us,  flapping  up  into  the  fir- 
tree  in  the  front  yard  at  night  to  roost, 
and  fishing  from  the  float  or  the  beach 
in  the  daytime.  It  was  an  idyllic  state 
of  affairs  which  might  have  lasted  in- 
definitely had  it  not  been  for  Sironda, 
the  Black  Minorca  hen. 

"Si"  we  sometimes  called  her  for 


HENRY 

97 


short,  and  we  had  known  her  from  the 
day  of  her  birth.  Even  before  that; 
for  Brother  and  I  had  set  the  very  egg 
in  the  incubator  from  which  she  was 
hatched.  She  was  a  trim  little  hen 
with  shiny  black  feathers,  a  red  comb 
that  fell  coquettishly  over  one  eye,  and 
a  "singing  voice"  that  made  her  the 
prima  donna  among  the  poultry.  She 
was  in  every  respect  fitted  to  make  an 
impressionable  cockerel  forget  the  ties 
of  friendship,  and  Brother  and  I  have 
always  believed  that  she  mapped  out  a 
campaign  to  that  end  after  seeing  how 
well  Cannon  fared  by  trailing  at 
Henry's  heels. 

She  took  to  wandering  down  upon 
the  float,  singing  softly  to  herself  and 
ostensibly  on  the  lookout  for  bugs,  but, 
as  we  noticed,  keeping  an  eye  upon 
Cannon  and  his  fisher  friend  and  al- 
ways drawing  nearer  and  nearer  to  the 
pair. 


Finally  she  grew  so  bold  as  to  come 
up  to  Cannon's  side,  and  when  Henry, 
the  heron,  next  dropped  a  shining 
smelt  upon  the  float,  the  bantam,  in- 
nately chivalrous,  voiced  a  high- 
pitched  invitation  to  Sironda  to  par- 
take of  the  dainty. 

Cannon,  watching  her,  was  content 
to  have  her  devour  the  juicy  morsel, 
but  not  so  was  Henry.  He  would  fish 
willingly  for  Cannon,  but  not  for  his 
lady  friends,  and  with  one  hair-raising 
scream  he  opened  his  huge  bill,  spread 
his  wings  and  lunged  for  Sironda,  who 
dropped  the  remnants  of  the  fish  and 
fled  down  the  float,  half  running,  half 
flying,  and  uttering  hysterical  cackles. 

Cannon  watched  her  precipitous  re- 
treat with  a  surprised  and  worried 
countenance;  then  he  turned  upon 
Henry.  And  though  Brother  and  I 
could  not  hear  what  was  said,  I  am 
sure  that  there  were  fierce  words  be- 


HENRY 
99 


twcen  them,  for  Henry  had  to  knock 
Cannon  down  three  times  in  rapid  suc- 
cession before  the  irate  bantam  turned 
heel  and  followed  Sironda  up  the  float 
and  into  the  yard. 

The  rift  in  the  lute  had  come,  and  it 
grew  wider.  For  Sironda  became 
bolder  in  her  advances,  and  Cannon, 
flattered  by  her  feminine  wiles,  laid  his 
fish — of  Henry's  catching — at  her  feet. 
It  was  a  triangle  situation  which  could 
end  only  in  one  way.  For  at  the  end  of 
each  one-sided  fight  Cannon  would 
stalk  away  with  outraged  dignity  in 
every  ruffled  feather,  and  Henry 
would  gaze  after  him  sadly  and  would 
thereafter  peck  at  the  swarms  of  silver 
smelt  solemnly  and  without  zest. 

And  so  he  left  us.  One  day  he  tried 
his  massive  wings  and  sailed  upward 
and  outward  into  the  blue  sky,  circled 
in  midair  as  if  trying  his  strength,  and 
then  flapped  quietly  away  toward  the 


Pointing  Finger,  and  as  he  flew,  he 
uttered  a  mournful  cry  that  trailed  be- 
hind him  like  a  wisp  of  smoke. 

And  Cannon,  the  thankless  one,  did 
not  even  know  that  he  had  gone.  He 
was  scratching  worms  for  Sironda. 
But  I  really  think  it  broke  Henry's 
heart,  for  he  never  came  to  our  float 
again.  And  I  am  positive  that  he 
became  a  woman-hater  and  remained  a 
bachelor  the  rest  of  his  life. 


Part  Six 


His  constant  barking 
set  the  grown-ups 
against  him. 


STOP    THIEF 


N  the  days  when  the  rov- 
ing fisher  boats  chugged 
into  the  little  cove  to  set 
their  nets  for  salmon  or 
silver  smelt,  we  spent  most 
of  our  time  on  the  bay.  We  knew 
every  broad-beamed  gray  launch  that 
rounded  Green  Point,  a  mile  away, 
and  we  knew  most  of  the  fishermen 
who  owned  them.  We  would  wait 
until  the  coughing  engine  was  silent 
and  the  anchor  was  cast;  then  we 

101 


STOP 

THIEF 

102 


would  hoist  the  sail  of  our  tiny,  round- 
bottomed  skiff  and,  using  an  oar  for  a 
rudder,  skim  out  across  the  ruffled  sur- 
face of  the  bay  to  pay  a  visit  to  the 
swarthy-visaged  men  with  heavy,  griz- 
zled beards  and  rough,  red  hands. 
They  always  made  us  welcome  in  their 
strange  and  guttural  tongues,  for  we 
took  them  apples  from  the  orchard, 
and  sometimes  a  glass  of  jelly  or  a  loaf 
of  home-made  bread.  And  in  ex- 
change they  gave  us  curious  souvenirs 
of  their  travels — dried  starfish  of  mon- 
strous size,  lovely,  iridescent  shells, 
and  reed  baskets  bartered  from  the 
Siwash  Indians. 

The  boat  we  knew  best  was  called 
Rojtnzvpcig,  which,  the  Austrian  own- 
ers said,  meant  "Rose-branch."  These 
two  fishermen,  dark,  powerful  men, 
anchored  just  beyond  our  float  in  the 
smelt  and  salmon  seasons,  and  we  were 
fond  of  them.  They  let  us  help  them 


haul  in  the  nets,  and  more  than  once 
Brother  and  I  have  stood  in  huge  hip 
boots     many    sizes     too     large,     tug- 
ging at  wet  ropes  heavy  with  seaweed, 
excitedly  pulling  at  the  drag  net  and 
watching  for  the  first  glint  of  splashing 
silver    in    the    brown    meshes    which 
would  tell  us  that  the  net  was  nearly  to 
the  beach  and  filled  with  fish. 

We  were  always  sorry  to  see  the 
Rosenzweig  leave  us,  and  it  was  al- 
ways a  day  of  rejoicing  when  we 
sighted  the  little  gray  boat  chugging 
around  the  Point,  its  bow  and  stern 
piled  high  with  seine  and  drag  nets. 
The  two  fishermen  brought  us  a  gift 
each  time — we  expected  it.  Sometimes 
it  would  be  a  bunch  of  letters  with 
Austrian  stamps  attached  —  Brother 
and  I  were  confirmed  philatelists; 
sometimes  it  was  a  sugar-cured  salmon, 
and  once  they  brought  us  a  carved 
canoe  paddle  which  they  had  pur- 


STOP 

THIEF 

IO4 


chased  of  a  Nittenat  chief,  far  up  the 
straits  toward  Alaska. 

But  the  day  of  days  was  when,  com- 
ing alongside  their  gray  boat  just  as 
the  anchor  splashed,  we  were  greeted 
by  Andrin,  the  elder  brother,  who 
grinned  delightedly  and  signified  in 
his  broken  English  that  he  had  some- 
thing wonderful  for  us. 

We  clambered  over  the  gunwale  of 
the  Rosenziveig,  with  its  littered  deck 
and  its  heavy,  perpetual  smell  of  fish, 
seaweed,  and  tar  calking,  and  Karl,  the 
younger  fisherman,  made  us  shut  our 
eyes  while  he  carried  something  up 
from  the  hold  and  put  it  on  the  deck, 
something  that  thrashed  about  wetly 
and  barked  in  a  high-pitched  baby 
voice  much  like  a  puppy's. 

We  opened  our  eyes  and  stared  in 
amazement.  For  there,  before  us  on 
the  deck,  was  a  baby  seal!  He  was 
wet  and  shiny  brown,  with  great, 


STOP 
THIEF 

105 


bright  eyes  that  peered  at  us  curiously, 
but  without  fear,  and  delicate  nostrils 
with  neat,  gentlemanly  whiskers  pro- 
truding from  each  side.  With  his  tiny 
fore  -  flappers  he  propelled  himself 
along  the  deck,  barking  constantly. 
Andrin  threw  him  a  piece  of  dried  fish, 
which  he  caught  in  the  air  and  de- 
voured instantly. 

"We  bring  you  nice  present,"  said 
Karl,  showing  his  white  teeth  in  a 
smile,  and  he  indicated  the  baby  seal, 
who  reared  himself  up  as  high  as  he 
could  on  his  front  flappers  and  barked 
vociferously. 

That  we  were  delighted  goes  with- 
out saying.  We  had  seen  many  seals 
from  a  distance,  but  never  had  we 
thought  to  have  one  for  a  friend. 

Often  one  would  pop  out  of  the 
water  in  the  wake  of  our  boat  as  we 
rowed  to  town,  his  wet,  sleek  head 
blackly  silhouetted  against  the  blue 


water.  And  if  we  whistled  or  called, 
he  would  follow  us  indefinitely,  for 
seals  have  more  than  their  share  of 
curiosity.  They  are  interested  in 
strange  sounds  and  in  bright  colors. 
Once,  when  Brother  was  wearing  a 
red  sweater,  a  seal  followed  our  boat 
for  nearly  a  mile. 

We  had  often  known  when  they 
were  near  us  in  the  Bay  even  without 
seeing  them.  For  when  we  saw  a  sal- 
mon jumping  many  times,  in  a  series  of 
frenzied  leaps,  we  knew  it  was  not 
through  sport,  but  because  he  was  pur- 
sued by  a  seal  who  would  surely  seize 
him  the  minute  his  strength  gave  out. 
We  had  seen  salmon  nets  spread  in  the 
water  with  only  a  row  of  fish  heads  re- 
maining in  the  meshes.  Robber  seals 
had  neatly  bitten  off  the  rest  of  the 
body.  Once,  while  Brother  and  I  were 
swimming  far  out  from  the  float,  a 
smooth,  heavy  body  brushed  against 


STOP 

THIEF 

107 


mine,  and  I  screamed  with  fear.  But 
an  instant  later  a  brown,  wet  head 
arose  not  twenty  yards  away,  and  two 
bright  eyes  were  turned  on  me  inquir- 
ingly as  if  to  ask  why  I  had  been 
frightened. 

You  see,  we  were  well  acquainted 
with  the  seal  family  at  long  distance, 
but  never  before  had  we  been  so  close 
to  one  of  the  brown  brethren. 

I  took  a  piece  of  fish  from  Karl's 
hand  and  stooped  toward  the  baby  seal, 
who  turned  his  head  from  side  to  side, 
sniffed  once  or  twice,  and  then  dragged 
himself  along  the  deck  to  me,  taking 
the  friendship  offering  gingerly  from 
my  outstretched  fingers.  A  little  later 
he  found  a  warm,  sunny  place  on  a  pile 
of  nets  and  turned  over  on  his  back, 
scratching  himself  negligently  with 
one  of  his  fore-flappers. 

Karl  said  he  would  not  take  it  amiss 
if  we  scratched  him  under  the  chin. 


and  indeed  he  did  not.  He  stretched 
his  head  back  and  closed  his  eyes,  while 
we  gently  stroked  the  glossy  fur, 
which,  as  it  dried,  became  gray  rather 
than  brown  in  color. 

The  fishermen  told  us  that  the  baby 
seal  had  attended  a  net-robbing  expe- 
dition with  his  mother.  Both  the  lady 
seal  and  her  baby  had  become  entan- 
gled in  the  nets.  The  mother  had 
fought  and  had  finally  escaped.  But 
the  baby  they  had  loosed  from  the 
heavy  meshes,  and  had  taken  him, 
barking  and  protesting,  on  board  the 
Rosenziveig,  where  they  had  kept  him 
in  the  hold,  first  as  a  prisoner  and  then 
as  a  pet,  to  bring  to  Brother  and  me. 

I  know  they  were  sorry  to  part  with 
Alfred,  as  we  christened  the  little  seal, 
but  they  needed  the  hold  of  their  small 
boat  for  their  catches  of  fish.  They 
could  not  afford  to  turn  it  permanently 
into  a  bath-tub  for  a  water-baby  who 


STOP 
THIEF 

109 


could  not  live  long  away  from  the  ele- 
ment to  which  he  was  accustomed.  So 
when  the  Rosenzweig  chugged  away  a 
few  days  later,  Alfred  was  left  to  our 
care,  with  a  hundred  instructions  as  to 
how  to  regulate  his  diet  and  behavior. 

The  grown-ups  were  none  too 
pleased  at  our  latest  pet,  and  it  was  a 
tribute  to  Alfred's  winning  ways  that 
he  finally  established  himself  as  firmly 
in  their  affection  as  in  ours.  For  there 
was  no  doubting  his  intelligence, 
handicapped  as  it  was  by  his  unwieldy 
body  that  seemed  half  fish  and  half 
animal. 

He  learned  to  respond  to  his  name 
sooner  than  most  dogs,  and  he  dis- 
played his  love  for  us  in  a  manner 
which  was  unmistakable.  At  first  we 
were  afraid  to  let  him  go  into  the  bay 
for  fear  he  would  swim  away  and  leave 
us.  We  did  not  know  how  large  seals 
had  to  be  before  they  could  earn  their 


living  in  the  water,  but  we  chose  to 
think — selfishly  perhaps — that  Alfred 
was  too  small  to  make  his  way  in  a  sub- 
marine contest  of  wits  against  older 
and  more  experienced  of  his  kindred. 

We  need  not  have  worried,  however, 
for  the  baby  seal  adopted  us  in  the  same 
spirit  that  we  had  adopted  him.  He 
evidently  had  no  thought  of  leaving 
us.  The  float  in  front  of  the  cabin  was 
his  headquarters,  and  from  it  he  would 
slide  off  into  the  water,  rolling  and 
splashing  like  a  young  dolphin,  to  re- 
turn when  he  was  tired  or  when  we 
called  him. 

I  can  see  him  now,  his  small,  sleek 
head,  with  its  great  brown  eyes,  sticking 
up  out  of  the  water,  at  our  call  point- 
ing for  the  float  like  a  periscope;  lift- 
ing himself  by  his  wet  fore-flappers 
with  their  short,  clicking  nails  and 
dragging  himself  toward  us,  leaving  in 
his  wake  a  trail  of  salt  water. 


STOP 

THIEF 

III 


It  was  his  constant  barking  which  at 
first  had  set  the  grown-ups  against  him, 
so  we  made  him  refrain  from  it.  He 
learned  that  when  we  said,  with  finger 
upraised  reprovingly,  "Alfred,  less 
noise!"  he  must  be  quiet,  or  there 
would  be  no  piece  of  dried  fish  for 
him,  no  bottle  of  milk,  and  no  gum- 
drops. 

It  might  not  have  been  necessary  to 
bring  Alfred  up  on  the  bottle,  espe- 
cially as  the  fishermen  of  the  Rosen- 
ziveig  had  been  feeding  him  dried  fish 
ever  since  they  had  caught  him,  but 
our  experience  with  other  baby  ani- 
mals had  convinced  us  that  milk  was 
a  pleasant  if  not  absolutely  essential 
form  of  food.  So  we  trained  Alfred 
to  drink  from  a  bottle  with  a  rubber 
nipple,  and  he  loved  it.  He  broke  the 
first  two,  banging  them  down  on  the 
float,  so  Brother  and  I  devised 


STOP 

THIEF 

112 


a  padded  bag  for  it.  From  this 
Alfred  daily  took  his  milk,  blink- 
ing his  great,  shining  eyes  at  us  and 
pausing  occasionally  to  bark.  We 
came  to  know  it  for  his  sign  of  ap- 
proval. 

The  gum-drops  were  given  to  him 
experimentally.  Brother  maintained 
that  the  Esquimaux  lived  on  them,  and 
that  Alfred,  being  a  relative  of  north- 
ern fur-bearing  seals,  would  doubtless 
thrive  on  the  same  diet.  His  reasoning 
may  have  been  faulty  in  theory,  but  in 
practise  it  was  amazingly  successful. 
Many  a  time  did  Brother  and  I  row 
the  three  miles  to  town  for  the  special 
purpose  of  purchasing  gum-drops  for 
Alfred.  He  seemed  to  know  instinc- 
tively when  we  had  the  candy  with  us, 
for  when,  in  returning,  we  reached  the 
Pointing  Finger,  half-way  between 
Green  Point  and  the  cove,  we  could 
make  out  a  black  speck  on  the  float 


STOP 
THIEF 


ahead  of  us,  a  speck  that  wriggled  and 
flopped  and  finally  slid  down  into  the 
water.  Then  we  would  see  a  round 
dot  against  the  blue  little  waves  of  the 
bay,  a  dot  that  resolved  itself  into  a 
sleek,  brown  head,  and  there  would  be 
Alfred,  swimming  toward  the  boat, 
lifting  himself  as  high  out  of  the  water 
as  he  could,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  us 
beamingly.  We  always  made  him 
wait  until  we  reached  the  float  and 
moored  the  boat,  then  we  would  toss 
him  the  candy  a  piece  at  a  time,  mak- 
ing him  catch  it  in  mid-air. 

As  Alfred  grew  older  and  larger,  we 
trained  him  to  do  some  of  the  things  we 
had  seen  his  kindred  do  in  the  cir- 
cuses. And  how  eager  he  was  to  learn  1 
He  put  Brother  and  me  to  shame,  for 
we  hated  lessons.  He  loved  them.  We 
taught  him  to  balance  an  indoor  base- 
ball on  the  tip  of  his  brown  nose,  and 
when  he  saw  us  coming  down  the  float 


with  his  ball  in  our  hands,  he  would 
set  up  a  hilarious  barking  and  wriggle 
over  to  us,  his  head  moving  up  and 
down  in  an  ecstasy  of  anticipation. 
There  was  no  barking,  though,  when 
he  went  through  his  tricks.  If  Alfred 
had  been  a  man,  his  power  of  concen- 
tration would  have  made  him  a  mil- 
lionaire. He  would  sit,  moment  after 
moment,  posing  the  ball  on  his  nose, 
flexing  his  body  from  side  to  side  to 
keep  the  balance,  his  bright,  intelligent 
eyes  fixed  steadily  on  the  leathern 
sphere. 

We  taught  him  to  "play  dead,"  to 
dive  from  a  high  springboard,  and  to 
fetch  us  a  stick  that  we  threw  into  the 
water. 

Some  people  say  there  is  nothing  in 
heredity.  I  am  sure  there  is.  I  do  not 
pretend  to  be  an  expert  on  the  question, 
but  I  can  account  in  no  other  way  for 
Alfred's  deflection  from  the  path  of 


STOP 
THIEF 

"5 


respectability.  It  was  certainly  not  be- 
cause of  lack  of  nourishment  that  he 
took  to  robbing  seine  nets  of  salmon. 
I  am  rather  inclined  to  think  it  was  his 
mother's  waywardness  which  was  crop- 
ping out  in  him.  At  any  rate,  he  took 
to  making  nocturnal  excursions,  and  in 
the  morning  we  would  find  him  on  the 
float,  stretched  out  listlessly,  his  stom- 
ach actually  distended  by  too  much 
food,  and  he  would  eye  with  disdain 
the  padded  bottle  of  milk  and  the 
pieces  of  griddle  cake  we  had  brought 
for  his  breakfast. 

Still  we  did  not  suspect  that  our 
friend  had  become  a  net  robber  until 
the  Old  Fisherman  descended  on  us 
one  morning  with  wrath  in  his  eye. 
He  told  us  of  having  made  the  rounds 
of  his  salmon  nets  the  night  before  to 
find  the  bodies  neatly  snipped  from 
half  a  dozen  king  salmon.  He  had 
even  caught  the  fish  burglar  in  the  act 


STOP 
THIEF 


of  amputating  a  Chinook  salmon's  sil- 
ver body  from  its  head,  and  the  seal 
had  stared  at  him  in  the  lantern  light 
and  had  barked  at  him. 

That  it  was  Alfred,  he  was  sure, 
Brother  and  I  demurred  that  one  seal 
was  much  like  another.  But  no,  said 
the  Old  Fisherman;  this  was  a  small 
seal,  a  seal  unafraid  of  people,  an  im- 
pudent, half -grown  seal — Alfred! 

"And  he  chose  the  best  fish  o'  the 
lot,"  he  fumed.  "If  he'd  taken  a  dog- 
salmon,  now — but  no,  he  has  to  pick 
out -the  kings,  the  steel-heads  and  the 
Chinooks!" 

We  faced  Alfred  and  charged  him 
with  suspicion  of  robbery.  It  seemed 
to  us  that  he  avoided  our  questioning 
eyes.  He  flapped  over  to  his  ball  at  the 
side  of  the  float  and  occupied  himself 
in  trying  to  hoist  it  on  his  nose.  It  was 
perfectly  clear  to  us  that  his  conscience 
was  clouded  with  guilt. 


What  to  do?  We  loved  Alfred 
dearly,  but  we  loved  the  Old  Fisher- 
man, too,  and  his  living  depended  upon 
the  hauls  of  fish  he  made.  A  scanty 
living  it  was  at  best,  and  we  could  not 
bear  the  thought  of  being  even  indi- 
rectly the  cause  of  poverty  descending 
upon  him. 

We  built  a  wire  cage  in  which  we 
confined  Alfred  the  next  night,  much 
against  his  will.  And  the  Old  Fisher- 
man reported  in  the  morning  that  no 
salmon  had  been  stolen.  But  the  fol- 
lowing night  heredity  and  appetite 
proved  stronger  than  the  wire  netting 
we  had  devised,  and  Alfred  robbed  the 
seine  net,  near  the  Pointing  Finger,  of 
three  large  steel-heads. 

The  question  of  turning  Alfred  loose 
was  a  difficult  one.  We  had  never  re- 
strained him  in  any  way,  and  our  float 
and  the  beach  beside  it  were  the  only 
homes  he  knew.  The  Old  Fisherman 


spoke  of  killing,  but  that  was  against 
the  law,  since  the  seals  of  Puget  Sound 
are  considered  in  the  same  class  with 
sea-gulls  and  other  scavengers.  Be- 
sides, Brother  and  I  would  never  have 
permitted  such  a  thing.  Alfred  was 
our  friend.  Somewhat  of  a  reprobate, 
it  is  true,  but  after  all,  he  had  as  much 
right  to  the  salmon  in  the  Bay  as  had 
the  Old  Fisherman.  It  was  not  his 
fault  that  he  could  not  understand  the 
man-made  ethics  by  which  human  be- 
ings assumed  control  over  the  water 
and  its  inhabitants. 

Then  the  next  morning,  as  if  in 
response  to  prayer,  the  Rosenzweig 
came  chugging  around  Green  Point. 
Hardly  had  its  anchor  splashed  when 
Brother  and  I  were  easing  our  boat 
alongside  and  clambering  up  to  the 
smelly  deck. 

We  told  Karl  and  Andrin,  all  in  a 
breath,  how  Alfred,  the  seal  baby,  had 


STOP 

THIEF 

119 


grown  up  to  be  a  salmon  thief,  just 
like  his  mother.  We  told  how  sorry 
we  were  for  the  Old  Fisherman,  and 
how  we  could  not  seem  to  explain  to 
Alfred  about  controlling  his  appetite. 

Karl  and  Andrin  took  counsel  with 
each  other.  We  hung  hopefully  upon 
the  strange  foreign  sentences  that  we 
could  not  understand.  Then  Karl 
grinned  broadly.  They  were  going  to 
buy  a  new  boat,  he  said,  a  bigger  boat. 
They  could  fix  a  sort  of  a  tank  for 
Alfred,  wherein  he  could  submerge 
himself  in  water.  There  would  be  no 
question  of  fish ;  he  would  have  his  fill 
of  them.  They  had  missed  him,  Karl 
said.  He  had  been  "such  a  smart 
babeel" 

So  Alfred  left  us  as  he  had  come  to 
us — on  board  the  Rosenzweig.  He 
nuzzled  against  my  hand  like  a  dog  as 
I  gave  him  a  gum-drop,  and  his  shin- 
ing eyes  were  fixed  on  me  with  so  much 


STOP 

THIEF 

120 


affection  in  them  that  I  had  to  blink 
hard  to  keep  from  crying.  He  had 
forgotten  Karl  and  Andrin.  His 
heart  was  plainly  in  our  keeping. 

But  the  parting  had  to  be.  It  was 
with  sorrowful  faces  that  we  watched 
the  Rosenzweig  weigh  anchor  and 
commence  to  chug  out  into  the  current. 

Brother  and  I  stood  on  the  float,  try- 
ing to  pretend  to  each  other  that  we 
weren't  down-hearted,  when  suddenly 
I  spied  between  the  boards  Alfred's 
ball. 

"Oh,"  I  cried,  "he  must  have  that  to 
remember  us  by." 

We  piled  into  the  little  white  boat 
and,  pulling  on  the  oars  with  all  our 
might,  set  out  in  pursuit  of  the  gray 
fishing  launch.  Our  cries  finally 
reached  Karl  and  Andrin,  for  the  en- 
gine stopped,  and  in  a  few  minutes  we 
came  alongside. 

"Alfred's      balll"     we      explained 


breathlessly.      "He'd    be    lonesome 
without   it." 

And  at  the  sound  of  our  voices,  we 
heard  a  high-pitched  barking  from  the 
hold.  It  was  Alfred,  who  was  calling 
to  us  as  best  he  knew  how,  begging  us 
not  to  leave  him,  asking  us  to  please 
take  him  home  with  us— 

We  did  not  wait  for  the  fishermen's 
thanks.  We  were  on  the  verge  of  tears. 
So  the  engine  started  again  its  steady 
drumming,  the  propeller  churned  the 
water  into  green  and  white  whirlpools, 
and  the  Rosenziveig  made  out  towards 
the  Straits,  while  our  little  boat  rocked 
gently  in  her  wake. 

And  then,  as  we  sat  there,  a  sleek 
brown  head  appeared  out  of  the  water 
not  a  dozen  yards  from  the  stern — a 
shiny  seal  head  with  brilliant,  intelli- 
gent eyes.  It  was  not  Alfred,  of  course, 
but  for  an  instant  we  thought  it  might 
be.  For  the  space  of  a  few  breaths  the 


STOP 

THIEF 

122 


eyes  watched  us  intently,  then  the  head 
disappeared  from  sight. 

"I'll  bet  it  was  Alfred's  mother," 
said  Brother  solemnly,  "wanting  to 
know  what  we'd  done  with  her  child." 

"Well,"  said  I,  "what  has  happened 
is  her  own  fault.  If  only  she  hadn't 
made  a  robber  of  him!" 


Part    Seven 


O'HENRY,  THE  QUAIL 
BABY 


Part  Seven 


O'HENRY 

The 

QUAIL 
BABY 


//  Clarence  had  been  a  man,  he 

T  WAS  upon  the  Hill 
Trail  that  Brother  and  I 
came  to  know  O' Henry, 
the  Quail  Baby.  You 
would  have  liked  our  Hill 


Trail.  It  ran  from  the  old  logging 
chute,  just  at  the  top  of  the  hill 
above  the  cabin,  straight  through 
woods  of  pine  and  fir  until  it  ended  at 
Bright  Creek,  two  miles  distant,  a  tur- 
124 


Part  Seven 


O'HENRY 

The 

QUAIL 
BABY 


would  have  endowed  orphanages. 

bulent  little  stream  full  of  rapids  and 
miniature  waterfalls,  where  the  lady 
salmon  fought  their  way  up  through 
the  fresh  water  to  deposit  their  eggs. 
The  Hill  Trail  was  bordered  by  ferns 
and  salal  bushes,  with  delicate,  over- 
hanging red  huckleberry  bushes  and 
rows  of  young  alders  who  whispered 
to  each  other  all  day  like  children  in 
church.  On  either  side  of  the  brown 

"5 


O'HENRY 
126 


ribbon  that  was  the  trail  a  carpet  of 
grass  and  green  moss  stretched  back 
into  the  deep  woods,  and  tapestries  of 
twin-flower  vines  and  wild  blackberry 
bushes  hung  from  stump  and  fallen 
tree.  The  sunlight  slanted  down 
through  the  tall  pines  and  touched  the 
trail  with  tapering  fingers  of  light  as 
if  it  loved  it.  Even  in  the  hottest  sum- 
mer there  was  always  a  little  breeze 
that  stirred  the  alders  into  sleepy  gos- 
sip and  set  the  pine-trees  humming 
gently  to  themselves.  There  was  the 
scent  of  pine-needles,  of  fallen  leaves, 
of  wet  moss. 

We  loved  the  Hill  Trail  best  on  the 
drowsy  days  of  summer,  when  the 
shadows  of  the  trees  were  long  and 
cool,  and  the  gentle  splash  of  the  tiny 
waterfall  deep  in  the  woods  came  like 
distant  music.  It  was  on  such  a  day 
that  we  lay  in  the  cool,  deep  moss  near 

the  Fairy  Ring  and  stared  through  in- 


O  HENRY 
127 


terlacing  branches  at  the  blue  patch- 
work sky.  We  heard  the  tap-tap  of  a 
woodpecker  not  far  away,  the  drowsy 
hum  of  a  bee,  and  the  shrill  twittering 
of  a  flock  of  juncoes  who  were  flying 
overhead.  Then  from  afar  came  a  call 
that  we  knew  and  loved,  the  deep 
woods  call  of  the  quail,  with  its  three 
clear  notes  which  said,  as  we  imag- 
ined, "Oh,  Hen-ryl  Oh,  Hen-ryl" 

The  Chinook  Indians  say  that  long 
ago  a  lady  quail  was  unfaithful  to  her 
mate,  but  afterward  repented.  Her 
husband  never  forgave  her,  however, 
and  would  not  come  back  to  her,  so 
now  she  goes  through  the  forest  calling 
plaintively  to  him,  "Oh,  Hen-ryl" 

As  we  listened,  the  quail  call  came 
nearer,  then  a  faint,  almost  impercep- 
tible scurry  of  leaves  that  told  us  that 
a  bevy  of  the  little  brown  birds  was 
close  at  hand.  Indeed,  closer  at  hand 
than  we  thought,  for  at  that  instant  a 


OHENRY 
128 


mother  quail  tripped  out  from  the  un- 
derbrush and  at  sight  of  us  stopped 
short  with  an  imperative  danger  note, 
sounded,  as  we  suspected,  in  warning 
to  the  children  who  were  following 
her.  We  had  not  moved,  but  the 
mother  heart  was  filled  with  terror. 
There  was  a  whir  of  wings,  and  she 
rose  in  the  air  for  a  short  distance, 
then  fell,  crashing  heavily  into  a  clump 
of  fern. 

"She's  hurt,"  said  Brother  in  a  low 
tone,  and  quietly  yet  quickly  we  rose  to 
our  feet,  our  one  thought  to  aid  the  lit- 
tle brown  lady  in  her  distress.  But  as 
we  came  near  her — so  near  that  my 
outstretched  hand  almost  touched  her 
— she  fluttered  away  out  through  the 
clearing  and  down  the  trail,  one  wing 
dragging  piteously. 

Of  course  you  must  know  it  was  only 
a  trick.  Brother  and  I  should  have 
known  it,  for  we  had  heard  of  it  many 


O  HENRY 
129 


times.  But  such  was  the  excellent  act- 
ing of  the  brown  mother  bird,  with  her 
trailing  wing,  her  helpless  fluttering, 
and  pitiful  little  cries,  that  we  never 
questioned  her  sincerity.  Half  a  dozen 
times  we  almost  touched  her,  and  each 
time  she  eluded  us  and  fluttered  a  few 
feet  ahead.  Then  suddenly  with  tri- 
umphant whir  of  strong  wings  she  rose 
in  a  graceful  arc  and  disappeared  in 
the  thickness  of  the  forest  shadows. 

We  stood  and  laughed — a  little  rue- 
fully, for  we  prided  ourselves  upon  our 
woodcraft.  Then  I  touched  Brother's 
arm  as  a  thought  came  to  me. 

"Her  children  are  back  by  the  Fairy 
Ring,"  I  told  him.  "Let  us  hide  there 
and  see  if  she  will  return  to  them." 

So  down  the  trail  we  sped,  across 
the  little  clearing,  and  stooped  behind 
a  thick  screen  of  salal  bushes.  Nor 
had  we  long  to  wait,  for  presently 
there  was  a  soft  flutter  of  wings,  a  scut- 


tie  of  leaves,  and  out  from  the  under- 
brush, at  almost  the  very  spot  where  we 
had  first  seen  her,  came  the  mother 
quail  uttering  a  soft,  piping  call  which 
meant  "Danger  is  past;  all's  well!" 

As  if  by  magic,  a  dozen  tiny  brown 
bodies  scurried  out  from  under  leaves, 
baby  birds  the  size  of  bantam  chicks. 
They  eddied  around  and  behind  her 
like  little  leaves  in  the  wind,  and  she 
spoke  to  them  in  soft,  maternal  notes, 
telling  them  perhaps  of  the  two  fierce 
humans  from  whom  she  had  saved 
them  by  exposing  herself  to  capture. 

But  quails  can  not  count,  it  seems. 
For  when  the  little  brown  mother 
tripped  daintily  away  into  the  deep 
greenery  of  the  fern  brake  with  her 
brood  at  her  heels,  we  heard  a  tiny, 
piping  cry  so  small  as  to  be  only  a  dot 
of  sound.  Following  it,  we  came  upon 
the  place  where  Mrs.  Quail's  children 
had  hidden  themselves,  and  there  we 


found  a  baby  quail  whose  tiny  legs  had 
been  caught  in  a  twin-flower  vine,  and 
who  was  trying  to  wrench  himself  free 
with  all  his  little  might.  It  was  but 
the  work  of  an  instant  to  release  the 
little  dark-brown  puffball,  and  as  I 
held  him  in  my  hands  he  peeped 
shrilly  and  mournfully. 

We  could  not  bear  the  thought  of 
leaving  him  there  in  the  woods  on  the 
chance  that  his  mother  would  hear  him 
and  come  to  him.  Perhaps  our  doubt 
of  her  was  unjust,  but  at  any  rate  I 
carried  him  down  the  Hill  Trail, 
through  the  orchard,  and  to  the  little 
log  cabin.  Cupped  warmly  in  my 
hands,  he  went  to  sleep,  and  when  he 
woke  up,  he  forgot  that  he  had  been 
frightened,  for  he  was  a  very  tiny 
quail,  and  his  life  had  been  so  brief 
that  he  had  not  had  time  to  learn  the 
great  fear  which  all  too  soon  becomes 
a  part  of  every  woods  creature's  life. 


That  night  we  put  him  in  a  little  box 
with  warm  flannel  covers  over  him, 
which  we  hoped  would  take  the  place 
of  his  mother's  feathers,  and  the  next 
morning  we  thought  to  give  him  into 
the  keeping  of  some  philanthropic  hen 
to  rear  with  her  own  children. 

O'Henry,  the  Quail  Baby,  did  not 
know  that  he  was  not  a  chicken;  but 
the  hens  knew  the  difference,  and  there 
was  not  one  lady  among  them,  I  am 
sorry  to  say,  who  would  stretch  her 
maternal  spirit  to  include  him  in  her 
family.  We  tried  him  on  Sironda,  the 
black  Minorca  hen,  who  had  oblig- 
ingly hatched  out  and  mothered  every- 
thing, from  Barred  Plymouth  Rock 
chicks  to  white  Pekin  ducklings,  and 
who  had  even  reared  a  family  of  lanky 
young  turkeys.  But  although  Sironda 
was  fussily  attentive  to  her  own  brood 
of  three-day-old  chicks,  she  clucked 
sharply  when  we  shoved  O'Henry  in 


O  HENRY 
133 


under  her  spreading  wings,  and  tried 
to  scalp  him  with  a  vigorous  peck. 

Nor  would  Liberty,  the  bantam  hen, 
accept  him  as  a  foster  child.  She 
squawked  as  if  he  were  some  vicious 
animal,  and  only  prompt  attention  on 
our  part  saved  him  from  a  terrible 
death. 

So  we  brought  up  O'Henry  by  hand 
and  built  for  him  a  wire  pen  where  he 
could  spend  his  days.  We  dared  not 
let  him  loose  in  the  poultry  yard,  for 
it  seemed  that  every  hen,  matron  and 
maiden  lady  alike,  resented  the  pres- 
ence of  the  little  woods  stranger  and 
would  have  rejoiced  in  scalping  him. 

Brother  and  I  lightened  O'Henry's 
captivity  as  much  as  we  could.  We 
taught  him  to  come  to  us  when  we 
whistled  his  family  call,  and  we  would 
carry  him  about  on  our  shoulders,  bal- 
ancing there  like  a  tight-rope  per- 
former. We  took  him  with  us  when 


O  HENRY 
134 


we  rowed  in  our  little  boat  on  the  bay, 
and  he  would  perch  on  the  bow,  keep- 
ing himself  upright  with  fluttering 
wings  and  tail,  cocking  his  tiny  head  on 
one  side  when  the  sea-gulls  flew  over, 
and  uttering  at  times  a  faint  and 
thoughtful  note. 

However,  it  was  really  due  to 
Clarence,  the  gray  gander,  that 
O'Henry's  life  became  a  happy  one  at 
the  cove.  Clarence  was  full  of  years 
and  dignity,  and  a  born  philanthropist. 
If  he  had  been  a  man,  he  would  have 
endowed  orphanages  and  given  news- 
boy dinners.  As  it  was,  he  had  a  pas- 
sion for  fathering  the  young  things  of 
the  poultry  yard,  much  to  the  dismay 
of  the  various  mothers. 

There  was  never  a  queerer  sight 
than  Clarence,  the  huge  gander,  going 
the  rounds  of  the  hen-coops  of  a  morn- 
ing, making  coaxing  noises  to  lure  the 
young  chicks  out  from  under  their 


OHENRY 
135 


mothers'  wings.  The  mother  hens 
were  imprisoned  to  prevent  their 
scratching  in  the  garden,  and  Clarence 
would  shovel  at  the  ground  with  his 
broad  flat  bill  and  pretend  to  drop  a 
worm  or  bug  in  front  of  the  coop,  with 
the  result  that  half  of  the  lady  hen's 
brood  would  be  at  his  heels  ready  to 
follow  where  he  led.  His  charges 
were  always  well  fed,  for  Clarence  was 
an  excellent  provider,  but  the  wear  and 
tear  on  the  feelings  of  the  mothers 
must  have  been  terrific. 

It  was  inevitable  that  sooner  or  later 
the  gray  gander  should  discover 
O'Henry  and  make  him  one  of  his 
family.  We  found  Clarence  in  the 
yard  one  morning,  a  dozen  odd-sized 
chickens  at  his  webbed  heels.  There 
were  two  Minorca  chicks  that  be- 
longed to  Sironda,  half  a  dozen  white 
Leghorn  children,  a  tiny  cockerel  with 
budding  wings  and  tail  who  was 


OHENRY 
136 


Liberty's  son,  and  a  lanky  young 
Plymouth  Rock  rooster,  all  run  to  legs. 

We  were  minded  to  see  what  Clar- 
ence would  think  of  our  pet,  and  we  let 
O'Henry  out  of  his  pen.  The  gray 
gander  waddled  over  toward  the  tiny 
brown  bird,  his  feathered  tail  wiggling 
from  side  to  side,  and  made  some 
hospitable  noises  in  his  throat.  Then 
he  pulled  up  a  tuft  of  grass  and 
dropped  it  before  the  Quail  Baby  by 
way  of  getting  acquainted.  The  chicks 
set  upon  it  noisily,  while  O'Henry 
watched  them,  his  little  head  upraised, 
his  tiny  black  eyes  fixed  on  Clarence's 
friendly  bulk. 

We  had  no  idea  of  letting  him  go 
gipsying  with  Clarence,  for  he  had  be- 
come a  well-loved  playmate,  and  we 
could  not  be  sure  of  his  safety  when 
away  from  us.  Brother  stooped  to 
pick  him  up,  but  with  a  long-drawn 
hiss  Clarence  was  upon  him  in  a  fury 


O  HENRY 
137 


of  flapping  wings  and  snapping  bill. 
He  did  not  suffer  his  charges  to  be  mo- 
lested while  in  his  care;  that  was  clear. 
So  we  allowed  O'Henry  to  go  jaunt- 
ing with  Clarence  and  his  feathered 
crew.  Daily  the  gray  gander  would 
come  into  the  yard  with  his  motley 
family  in  tow,  and  having  gathered  up 
O'Henry,  they  would  be  off  through 
the  meadow,  up  into  the  orchard,  not 
to  return  until  the  setting  of  the  sun. 
They  would  come  straggling  back  in 
sleepy  Indian  file,  the  gray  gander  at 
the  head  of  the  line,  the  chicks  cheep- 
ing fretfully  and  glad  to  nestle  under 
the  feathers  of  their  distracted  moth- 
ers. We  would  watch  for  O'Henry 
and  whistle  the  call  he  knew.  He 
would  come  to  us  with  his  quick,  dart- 
ing run  and  we  would  take  him  into  the 
house  for  the  night.  His  crop  was 
always  crammed  disgracefully,  and  his 
eyes  were  heavy  with  sleep. 


Sometimes  O'Henry  heard  the  call 
of  the  wild,  and  we  wondered  when  he 
would  obey  it.  He  had  grown  from  a 
baby  bird  to  a  beautiful  brown  gentle- 
man quail,  with  white  stripes  running 
from  his  throat  down  over  his  breast 
like  a  vest.  He  had  a  tiny  topknot  that 
lifted  in  moments  of  excitement,  and  a 
clear  "Bobwhite"  whistle  that  Brother 
and  I  imitated,  much  to  his  annoyance. 

We  would  hide  from  him  behind  the 
rose-bush  and  whistle.  He  would 
come  running,  his  head  stretched  out 
in  front  of  him,  and  on  seeing  us  would 
hunch  his  head  in  between  his  shoul- 
ders and  blink  at  us  reproachfully. 

When  summer  passed  and  autumn 
came  to  the  cove,  O'Henry  was  the 
only  one  of  Clarence's  family  who  still 
remained  with  the  gray  gander.  The 
chicks  and  ducklings  had  gradually 
grown  to  adulthood  and  forgotten  the 
kindly  gander  who  had  fathered  them. 


O  HENRY 
139 


But  O'Henry  still  joined  Clarence  in 
his  daily  excursions  to  the  orchard  or 
the  meadow. 

Then  one  day,  late  in  the  fall, 
O'Henry  went  back  to  the  woods.  We 
grieved  for  him,  because  we  loved  him 
and  because  he  had  chosen  the  hardest 
time  of  the  year  in  which  to  return  to 
wild  life  he  knew  only  by  instinct.  We 
went  along  the  Hill  Trail  whistling 
"Oh,  Hen-ry!"  But  if  he  heard  the 
call  he  disregarded  it.  He  never  came 
to  us. 

Clarence  was  inconsolable.  Day 
after  day  he  would  waddle  into  the 
back-yard  where  O'Henry's  empty  pen 
still  stood,  walk  around  it,  peer 
through  the  wire  mesh,  and  make  se- 
ductive noises  of  invitation.  Brother 
and  I  tried  to  explain  to  him  that  our 
baby  quail  had  grown  up  and  had  gone 
back  to  his  kindred  of  the  woods, 
but  Clarence  only  hissed  at  us 


O  HENRY 
I4O 


and  regarded  us  balefully.  I  think  he 
suspected  us  of  having  made  away  with 
his  little  comrade. 

One  day  the  snow  came,  early  for  the 
Sound  country,  and  Brother  and  I, 
climbing  the  trail  to  the  top  of  the  hill, 
saw  the  familiar  three-line  imprints  of 
the  quail  track.  We  thought  of 
O'Henry,  our  lost  friend;  we  hoped  he 
was  warm  and  that  his  crop  was  full 
of  food. 

Then  one  morning  we  heard  the  fa- 
miliar "quit  quit"  of  the  quail  very 
near  at  hand.  The  sound  came  from 
an  empty  hen-house,  and  when  we 
approached  it  silently  and  peered 
through  a  crack,  what  should  we  see 
there  but  a  bevy  of  twenty  quail — and 
O'Henry  in  their  midst!  He  had  not 
forgotten  us  after  all!  He  had  brought 
his  friends  and  relatives  back  to  the 
place  of  his  childhood,  where  he  was 
sure  of  a  welcome  for  them. 


O  HENRY 
141 


Our  hands  filled  with  cracked  wheat 
and  mixed  grain,  we  came  to  the  door 
of  the  shed,  softly  whistling,  "Oh, 
Hen-ry\"  He  came,  as  in  former  days, 
running  to  us  with  his  head  stuck  out 
in  front  of  him,  and  with  a  soft  whir 
of  wings  was  upon  my  shoulder,  peck- 
ing contentedly  at  the  wheat  I  offered 
him,  and  wiping  his  bill  on  my  cheek. 

All  through  the  weeks  of  snow  and 
cold  we  fed  O'Henry's  clan,  and  they 
learned  that  we  were  not  to  be  feared. 
They  surrounded  us  like  chickens 
whenever  we  came  into  the  shed,  for 
O'Henry's  trust  in  us  had  inspired 
their  confidence.  Not  only  did  they 
become  accustomed  to  us,  but  to  Clar- 
ence as  well.  For  the  lonely  gray 
gander  caught  sight  of  O'Henry  one 
morning,  and  waddled  over  to  him, 
wiggling  his  excuse  of  a  tail,  shovel- 
ing the  ground  with  his  flat,  yellow 
bill,  and  expressing  his  delight  in 


husky  quacks.  The  other  quail  at  first 
took  alarm,  and  there  was  much  whir- 
ring of  wings  and  scurrying  of  tiny 
feet.  But  the  gray  gander  soon  proved 
to  them  that  his  intentions  were  of  the 
best.  He  merely  wished  to  provide 
for  them.  So  all  those  weeks  when  we 
fed  our  "boarders,"  as  we  called  them, 
Clarence  stayed  in  the  shed  with  the 
quail  family,  grubbing  busily  at  the 
bare  ground,  finding  little,  but  making 
up  for  the  scarcity  of  food  in  kindly 
endeavor. 

When  the  snow  melted,  O'Henry's 
tribe  went  back  to  the  woods — and  with 
them  went  Clarence.  One  day  we  saw 
O'Henry  and  his  brown  cousins  scurry- 
ing up  the  hill,  darting  under  ferns  and 
bushes,  calling  to  each  other  happily — 
and  in  their  wake  was  Clarence,  the 
fatherly  gander,  flattered  into  thinking 
that  he  was  leading  the  way. 

It  was  a  quaint  sight,  and  we  did  not 


O  HENRY 
143 


try  to  bring  him  back  because  we 
thought  he  would  return  at  sunset. 
But  he  did  not.  He  disappeared  into 
the  woods  with  the  quail  family,  and 
we  never  saw  him  again.  Long  after- 
ward, hunters  told  us  of  seeing  a  gray 
gander  with  a  flock  of  quail — and  they 
had  forborne  to  shoot. 

So  we  lost  two  friends  at  once,  but 
we  tried  to  believe  that  they  were 
happy  together.  How  Clarence  accus- 
tomed himself  to  the  ways  of  the  wild, 
I  do  not  know.  But  I  do  believe  that 
somewhere  the  gray  gander  still  lives 
with  O'Henry,  and  I  can  think  of  no 
better  protector  for  the  quail  baby  and 
his  family. 


Part  Eight 


THE  TALE  OF  TIMOTHY 


Part  Eight 


Timothy  clung  to 
the  bottle  habit. 


TIMOTHY, 
THE  DIRTY  BEAR 


ERHAPS   it   is   unjust   to 
the  memory  of  our  friend 
Timothy   that  we   should 
think  of  him  as  "the  Dirty 
Bear."     I  wouldn't  preju- 
dice you  against  him  for  the  world. 
"Dirty"    has    such     a     reprehensible 
sound.     But  Timothy  was  dirty  in  a 
H5 


perfectly  legitimate  way.  He  had  a 
primitive  soul  that  found  delight  in 
grubbing  in  rotten  stumps  for  mag- 
gots and  in  burrowing  into  the  soft 
earth  for  Indian  potato  roots.  You 
can  see  that  under  such  circumstances 
he  could  not  keep  his  face  and  paws 
scrupulously  clean,  any  more  than  a 
child  can  who  makes  mud  pies.  He 
hated  water — but  then,  so  did  we,  un- 
less we  could  take  our  baths  in  the  Bay 
— and  he  had  an  almost  fanatical  fear 
of  soap.  Brother,  who  was  then  read- 
ing "A  Connecticut  Yankee  in  King 
Arthur's  Court,"  thought  Timothy 
might  have  been  a  reincarnation  of 
some  eccentric  hermit  who  had  vowed 
never  to  wash  himself  for  the  rest  of 
his  life. 

We  knew  Timothy  long  before  he 
knew  us.  We  did  not  know  him  by 
name,  but  we  knew  where  he  lived, 
and  we  had  what  you  might  call 


TIMOTHY 

147 


a  speaking  acquaintance  with  his 
mother.  It  happened  thus: 

One  day,  in  our  explorations  along 
the  creek  bed  at  the  end  of  the  Hill 
Trail,  we  came  suddenly  upon  a  hole 
in  the  bank.  It  was  almost  covered  by 
long,  overhanging  ferns,  and  had  not 
a  puff  of  wind  stirred  the  fronds  just 
as  we  were  passing,  we  should  never 
have  known  about  the  hole  at  all.  It 
was  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  creek, 
but  we  found  a  place  where  a  fallen 
log  bridged  the  little  stream,  and  the 
next  moment  we  were  standing  on  the 
opposite  side  at  the  foot  of  the  em- 
bankment, pushing  the  ferns  aside  and 
peering  into  the  depths  of  a  black  and 
wonderfully  inviting  hole. 

Had  we  thought  to  look,  we  might 
have  seen  in  the  sandy  slope  that  led 
up  to  the  hidden  entrance  the  imprints 
of  a  foot  almost  human  in  shape,  al- 
though not  nearly  so  large.  Footprints 


that  turned  in  toward  each  other — and 
we  should  have  known.  But  our  minds 
were  filled  with  the  fascinating  possi- 
bilities of  the  miniature  cave  we  had 
discovered.  Perhaps  it  was  a  pirate 
den;  perhaps  gnomes  lived  there;  or 
perhaps  we  were  on  the  track  of  buried 
treasure. 

On  hands  and  knees  I  led  the  way 
into  the  inky  blackness  with  Brother 
close  behind  me.  The  daylight  behind 
was  blotted  out.  For  several  yards  the 
passageway  went  straight  ahead,  then 
it  turned  suddenly  to  the  right;  and  I, 
turning  with  it,  stopped  so  abruptly 
that  Brother  coming  behind  bumped 
into  me.  A  curious,  powerful  odor  en- 
veloped us,  as  of  darkness  made  odor- 
ous by  furry  bodies  and  warm  by  living 
things.  Then  from  ahead  of  me  not 
more  than  two  yards  away  flashed  the 
savage  gleam  of  two  blue-green  eyes. 

There  was  a  menacing  growl  which 


TIMOTHY 
149 


set  our  spines  to  tingling,  and  at  the 
same  instant  came  the  sound  of  whines 
and  a  movement  as  of  baby  things  dis- 
turbed in  their  sleep.  I  was  conscious 
of  a  sickish,  fainting  feeling,  for  I  real- 
ized suddenly  that  we  were  in  the  house 
of  a  mother  bear. 

Brother  needed  no  urging  to  make 
his  exit.  He  was  backing  out  on  hands 
and  knees  far  more  quickly  than  he  had 
come  in,  and  I  was  prodding  him 
along,  followed  by  those  menacing, 
hair-raising  growls. 

Why  the  lady  bear  did  not  attack 
us  is  more  than  I  can  tell.  The  brown 
bears  of  the  northwestern  woods  are 
harmless  and  even  friendly  little  per- 
sons, but  the  mother  when  protecting 
her  young  is  more  ferocious  than  a 
wildcat  or  a  mountain  lion.  Perhaps 
Mrs.  Timothy  knew  that  our  visit  was 
unintentional  and  that  we  meditated 
no  harm  toward  her  or  her  children. 


At  any  rate  we  gained  the  entrance  of 
the  cave  untouched  and  unharmed, 
but  we  were  breathing  heavily  and 
our  knees  were  wobbling  sadly. 

Perhaps  you  think  we  should  have 
stayed  away  from  the  house  of  the  lady 
bear;  but  we  did  not.  We  were  in- 
terested, you  see,  in  knowing  how  much 
of  a  family  she  had,  and  we  never  went 
along  the  creek  bed  without  leaving 
some  offering  in  the  shape  of  food  at 
the  mouth  of  the  hole. 

Sometimes  it  was  an  apple  or  a  leaf 
of  lettuce,  and  if  nothing  else  availed, 
we  broke  off  licorice  root  or  fern  and 
placed  it  there  for  her.  It  was  our 
method  of  apologizing  for  our  intru- 
sion and  of  expressing  our  interest  in 
the  family. 

One  day  we  saw  the  mother  bear 
with  her  children,  and  that  is  how  we 
came  to  name  Timothy.  She  was  at  the 
mouth  of  the  cave,  half  asleep  in  the 


warm  sunshine,  and  four  cubs  were 
rolling  over  each  other  like  gridiron 
heroes  in  a  football  scrimmage.  They 
were  squealing  like  young  pigs,  and 
from  time  to  time  she  remonstrated 
against  their  noise  by  a  sleepy  grunt. 
Then,  as  we  watched,  the  bear  cub  at 
the  bottom  of  the  furry  pile  squeezed 
out  and  stood  on  his  hind  legs.  His  face 
was  covered  with  brown,  sandy  loam, 
and  his  squinty  black  eyes  peered  out 
as  through  a  mask.  I  knew  a  boy  who 
lived  at  the  head  of  the  Bay  whose  face 
always  looked  so.  His  name  was  Tim- 
othy, and  that  was  why  on  the  spot  we 
so  christened  the  bear  baby. 

Our  next  meeting  with  Timothy  was 
in  the  nature  of  a  near-tragedy.  We 
were  hunting  for  trilliums  in  Trillium 
Gulch,  a  hidden  valley  to  which  we 
ourselves  had  cut  a  path  from  the  Hill 
Trail.  The  white,  lily-like  flowers 
starred  the  hillside  there  in  the  spring, 


TIMOTHY 
152 


and  it  was  our  fond  belief  that  no 
one  came  there  but  ourselves.  Hunters 
and  trappers  go  everywhere,  however, 
violating  even  such  a  woodland  para- 
dise as  ours.  As  we  went  down  the 
narrow  trail,  pushing  aside  the  light 
branches  of  the  alders  and  the  fir- 
trees,  we  heard  a  plaintive,  whining 
cry  almost  human  in  its  poignancy.  We 
stopped  for  an  instant,  listening,  won- 
dering. Then  we  slipped  softly  down 
the  path,  thrust  aside  the  interlacing 
ferns,  and  found  ourselves  beside  the 
little  stream  which  ran  like  a  silver 
ribbon  through  Trillium  Gulch.  The 
sounds  came  from  the  left,  and  follow- 
ing their  lead  we  rounded  a  boulder 
in  the  trail  and  came  upon  a  sight 
which  filled  us  with  gasping  indigna- 
tion. A  little  brown  bear  with  a  fleck 
of  white  on  his  furry  throat  was  tug- 
ging frantically  and  futilely  at  the  jaws 
of  a  steel  trap  which  held  his  two  front 


TIMOTHY 
153 


paws  in  a  cruel,  biting  grip.  There 
was  blood  upon  the  jagged  clamps,  and 
the  face  which  the  little  fellow  turned 
to  us  was  piteous  in  its  baby  misery, 
a  little  brown  face  covered  with  loam. 
It  was  Timothy,  the  Dirty  Bear. 

I  do  not  like  even  now  to  think  of 
the  half-hour  which  followed.  So 
strong  was  the  steel  trap  that  the  com- 
bined efforts  of  Brother  and  myself 
could  only  pry  the  cruel  jaws  apart  the 
fraction  of  an  inch.  We  were  hamper- 
ed, too,  in  our  work  of  mercy  by  poor 
little  Timothy,  who,  not  realizing  that 
we  were  trying  to  help  him,  shrieked 
and  bit  at  us  and  scratched  with  his 
hind  feet.  Our  hands  were  soon  cov- 
ered with  blood,  and  there  was  a  long, 
jagged  line  of  red  on  Brother's  face 
where  the  baby  bear  had  clawed  him. 
But  we  did  not  pause  in  our  efforts. 
Finally,  by  the  aid  of  a  stout  stick,  we 
managed  to  open  the  jaws  of  the  vicious 


TIMOTHY 
154 


trap,  and  the  poor  little  fellow,  his 
front  paws  cruelly  torn  and  bleeding, 
whimpering  like  a  baby,  sat  down 
on  his  haunches  and  began  to  lick 
his  wounded  paws,  stopping  at  inter- 
vals to  hold  them  out  in  front  of  him 
like  a  child  whose  finger  is  hurt  and 
wants  it  made  well  by  a  kiss. 

Strangely  enough,  he  was  not  afraid 
of  us  now,  and  when  I  took  him  in  my 
arms  his  plaintive  whimpering  grad- 
ually ceased,  and  he  licked  at  his  paws 
solicitously. 

No  doubt  we  should  have  taken  Tim- 
othy back  to  his  mother  and  trusted  to 
nature  to  heal  his  grievous  hurts.  But 
nature  would  take  too  long,  and  in  the 
meantime  he  would  suffer  cruelly.  He 
was  such  a  little  bear,  you  know,  and 
had  not  yet  achieved  the  stoicism  which 
makes  the  older  woods  creatures  almost 
indifferent  to  pain.  So  even  at  the 

cost  of  causing  his  mother  a  great 


TIMOTHY 
155 


deal  of  worry  at  his  prolonged  ab- 
sence, we  took  him  down  the  hill  with 
us  to  the  log  cabin  to  receive  first  aid 
treatment  for  his  wounds. 

That  is  how  Timothy,  the  Dirty 
Bear,  became  a  friend  of  ours.  Fate 
in  the  form  of  a  hunter  prevented  us 
from  taking  him  back  to  his  home  in 
the  creek  bank.  The  poor  lady  bear 
was  shot  the  next  day.  One  of  her  cubs 
was  captured  and  the  other  two  chil- 
dren escaped  to  the  woods  to  live  as 
best  they  could.  So  Timothy  belonged 
to  us,  and  he  was  the  merriest  of  play- 
mates. 

When  we  rescued  him  from  the  trap 
he  was  a  very  tiny  bear,  being  no  larger 
than  Tinker,  our  black  and  tan  rat  ter- 
rier. He  slept  in  a  clothes-basket  on 
the  back  porch,  sometimes  having  for 
a  bedfellow  Three-Spot,  the  mottled 
black  and  white  cat.  Three-Spot  at 
first  had  been  greatly  alarmed  by  Tim- 


othy's  rough  and  sportive  overtures  of 
friendship.  But  when  she  found  that 
by  boxing  his  ears  she  could  correct  his 
manners  and  set  him  to  yelping  with 
fright,  she  took  to  imposing  upon  his 
good  nature  by  making  him  serve  at 
night  for  a  mattress.  In  the  morning 
we  would  find  the  two  of  them  curled 
up  together,  Timothy  snoring  gently 
and  Three-Spot  digging  her  paws  into 
his  soft,  thick  fur  with  a  purr  that  was 
a  monotone  of  content. 

Brother  and  I  did  not  know  whether 
Timothy's  mother  had  weaned  him 
from  a  milk  diet,  but  we  felt  that  we 
would  be  safeguarding  his  digestion  if 
we  brought  him  up  on  liquid  food  for  a 
time  at  least,  so  we  rowed  into  town 
especially  to  purchase  a  bottle  with  a 
strong  rubber  nipple  attached.  The 
druggist  asked  if  there  was  a  baby  at 
our  house,  and  we  told  him  yes — what 
kind  of  baby,  we  did  not  state. 


TIMOTHY 

157 


Whether  or  not  we  were  following 
the  same  system  of  dietetics  that  Mrs. 
Bear  would  have  employed  in  bringing 
up  her  child,  Timothy  really  did  thrive 
on  his  liquid  menu.  Even  after  he  out- 
grew the  necessity  for  milk,  he  clung  to 
the  bottle  habit  and  would  sample  the 
contents  of  any  bottle  he  found.  We  used 
to  bring  him  ginger  ale  from  town  and 
soda  pop  of  all  flavors.  If  nothing  else 
was  handy,  we  filled  a  battered  old 
canteen  with  sweetened  water,  and  he 
would  tilt  back  on  his  hind  legs,  hold 
the  canteen  perpendicularly  aloft,  close 
his  eyes,  and  drink  it  slowly,  making 
funny  little  rumbling  noises  deep  in  his 
throat  which,  Brother  maintained,  were 
imitations  of  Three-Spot's  purring. 
Once  he  got  hold  of  a  bottle  of  kero- 
sene and  had  closed  his  eyes  in  anticipa- 
tory esctasy  before  the  taste  of  the  first 
terrible  mouthful  reached  his  throat. 
I  shall  never  forget  the  look  of  pained 


disillusion  on  Timothy's  face.  He 
threw  the  bottle  from  him,  coughed  and 
sputtered,  gagged  once  or  twice  as  if 
deathly  sick,  and  then  waddled  off  to 
the  spring,  walking  pigeon-toed,  and 
with  uncomprehending  anguish  in  the 
very  tilt  of  his  furry  hind  quarters. 
That  should  have  cured  him  of  his  lik- 
ing for  promiscuous  bottles,  but  it  did 
not — as  you  shall  see. 

We  worried  a  little  at  first  as  to  what 
else  we  should  give  him  besides  milk, 
but  we  need  not  have  concerned  our- 
selves. Timothy's  appetite  was  with- 
out limits,  and  he  could  eat  anything — 
bread,  meat  scraps,  griddle  cakes,  or 
cold  potatoes.  On  top  of  the  civilized 
food  we  fed  him  he  hunted  on  his  own 
account  for  certain  roots  he  liked, 
clawed  the  bark  from  fallen  logs  to  get 
the  white  grubs  underneath,  and  buried 
his  head  at  the  foot  of  hollow  stumps 
where  the  red  ants  had  made  their  hills. 


TIMOTHY 
159 


After  an  hour  or  two  of  such  foraging, 
he  would  return  to  us,  his  face  and 
paws  besmeared  with  loam  and  covered 
with  cobwebs,  his  furry  coat  rusty 
with  sand  and  tagged  by  twigs  and 
strands  of  blackberry  vine.  He  would 
blink  at  us  questioningly,  a  trifle 
shamefacedly,  running  his  small  red 
tongue  along  the  sides  of  his  mouth, 
and  we  would  shake  our  heads  and 
say  mournfully,  "Oh,  Timothy,  you 
dirty,  dirty  bear!" 

After  such  excursions  we  always  gave 
him  a  bath  in  the  big  washtub,  and 
though  he  knew  there  was  no  escaping 
it,  he  always  squealed  and  struggled 
while  we  lathered  him  and  only  ceased 
his  whining  when  we  had  rinsed  him 
and  put  him  in  the  sun  to  dry,  giving 
him  the  canteen  filled  with  sugared 
water  to  keep  him  quiet. 

He  was  the  merriest  playfellow  we 
ever  had.  He  went  with  us  every- 


where — up  the  Hill  Trail,  into  the 
orchard,  and  out  on  the  bay  when  we 
sailed  our  little  boat  and  played  that 
we  were  pirates.  Timothy  never  ob- 
jected to  anything  except  a  bath.  We 
dressed  him  in  outlandish  costumes, 
sometimes  with  a  red  bandanna  tied 
around  his  head,  a  shawl  looped  about 
his  fat  and  furry  body,  and  a  wooden 
knife  stuck  in  his  belt.  He  was  always 
ready  to  wrestle  with  us,  to  climb  hills 
with  us,  or  to  be  a  pillow  for  our  heads 
as  Brother  and  I  lay  through  the  long, 
drowsy,  summer  afternoons  and  read 
fairy-tales  aloud  to  each  other,  or  de- 
scribed the  shapes  we  saw  in  the  clouds. 
When  the  late  fall  came,  Timothy 
remembered  he  was  a  bear  long  enough 
to  have  a  desire  to  go  to  bed  for  the 
winter,  but  what  chance  had  a  tired 
bear  for  a  seasonal  sleep  when  living 
in  the  same  house  with  Tinker,  Three- 
Spot,  Brother,  and  myself?  We 


would  drag  him  from  his  clothes-bas- 
ket while  he  whimpered  with  half- 
closed  eyes,  and  Tinker  would  badger 
him  into  wakefulness  and  a  game  of 
tag.  Then  the  four  of  us  would  go 
through  the  orchard  up  to  the  Hill 
Trail,  pushing  each  other  into  the 
drifts  of  dead  leaves  and  playing  hide 
and  seek  around  the  stumps  and  logs. 
Of  course  Timothy  could  not  stay 
with  us  always;  that  was  too  much  to 
expect.  He  belonged  to  the  woods,  and 
sooner  or  later  he  must  obey  their  call. 
He  had  belonged  to  us  for  almost  a 
year,  and  it  was  only  right  that  the  out- 
of-doors  should  at  last  claim  her  child. 
But  when  the  call  of  the  wild  did  come, 
we  were  sorry  in  spite  of  ourselves,  and 
when  Timothy's  absences  came  more 
and  more  frequently  and  the  intervals 
of  time  he  spent  with  us  lessened,  we 
missed  him  sorely.  We  knew  that  soon 
our  playmate  would  be  with  us  no 


more,  that  he  would  go  back  to  the 


forest  whence  he  came,  and  take  up  the 
serious  business  of  finding  a  wife  and 
of  locating  a  tree  or  a  hole  in  which 
to  spend  the  next  winter. 

The  manner  of  his  departure  was 
dramatic,  even  as  was  his  advent  into 
our  lives.  We  were  up  on  the  Hill 
Trail,  Brother  and  I,  and  we  had,  as 
we  supposed,  left  Timothy  on  the  back 
porch  sleeping  in  his  clothes-basket, 
for  which  he  was  now  much  too  big, 
but  to  which  he  had  become  attached 
through  habit.  On  the  open  trail  with 
its  sound-deadening  mat  of  hard,  brown 
earth  we  did  not  hear  the  soft,  padding 
feet  that  followed  us  and  were  not 
aware  that  our  friend  was  near  at  hand 
until  we  met  a  hunter,  brown-faced 
and  with  a  gun  in  hand,  near  the  bend 
in  the  path  that  we  called  "U-Chu-Ka's 
Corner,"  in  memory  of  our  little  rabbit 
friend. 


The  man  had  a  red  band  around  his 
hat,  I  remember,  and  a  canteen  was 
slung  at  his  side.  He  had  put  it  to  his 
lips  to  drink  when  he  caught  sight  of 
us,  and  suddenly  his  eyes  widened,  and 
the  hand  that  held  the  canteen  became 
rigid. 

"Run,  you  kids!"  he  gasped  out, 
"there's  a  bear  behind  you!" 

We  turned  to  confront  Timothy,  who 
was  standing  pigeon-toed  in  the  middle 
of  the  trail,  his  face  covered  with  loam 
from  a  rotten  stump  where  he  had  been 
digging  for  ants,  his  eyes  blinking  at 
us  sleepily  and  a  trifle  reproachfully 
for  having  gone  off  without  him.  But 
before  we  could  explain  to  the  hunter 
that  the  bear  behind  us  was  a  friend  of 
ours,  the  man  had  raised  his  gun  and 
leveled  it  at  our  playfellow.  I 
screamed  aloud  and  Brother,  heedless 
of  the  danger  flung  himself  in  front  of 
the  rifle. 


TIMOTHY 
164 


Now  Timothy  knew  nothing  of  guns, 
but  he  had  long  and  satisfactory  ac- 
quaintance with  bottles  and  canteens. 
He  had  seen  the  man  drink.  There  was 
something  contained  therein  that  he, 
Timothy,  would  like.  The  man  would 
not  mind  sharing  it — I'm  sure  he  rea- 
soned thus  to  himself — and  in  that  in- 
stant when  the  gun  was  pointed  straight 
at  him,  he  rose  on  his  hind  feet,  his 
furry  arms  outstretched,  and  started 
toward  the  hunter. 

The  man  with  the  gun  forgot  to  pull 
the  trigger;  he  forgot  everything  except 
that  a  dark  brown  body  with  gleaming 
black  eyes  was  advancing  upon  him. 
He  gave  a  little  squeal  of  terror,  and 
the  rifle  dropped  from  his  hands.  He 
turned  and  fled  down  the  trail  with 
Timothy  galloping  on  all  fours  close 
at  his  heels.  In  spite  of  our  breathless 
calls  he  would  not  return  to  us,  and 

though  we  ran  and  called  and  laughed 


at  the  same  time,  he  soon  outdistanced 
us.  When  last  we  saw  the  hunter  he 
was  disappearing  over  the  crest  of  a 
little  hillock  in  the  trail  with  the  can- 
teen bobbing  behind  him,  and  the  hat 
with  the  red  band  made  a  dot  of  scarlet 
against  the  underbrush  where  it  had 
fallen. 

We  heard  afterward  that  the  man 
had  not  stopped  running  until  he 
reached  the  little  town.  Timothy  by 
that  time  was  nowhere  in  sight,  having 
given  up  the  pursuit  of  the  canteen  in 
disgust. 

But  we  never  saw  him  again.  Per- 
haps returning  home  he  met  a  comely 
lady  bear  and  they  decided  to  set  up 
housekeeping  together.  Perhaps  she 
even  won  his  heart  by  telling  him  that 
she  knew  where  there  was  a  nice  bottle 
full  of  sweetened  water. 

Long  afterward  we  found  one  day 
by  the  creek  bed  a  ginger  ale  bottle 


dropped  there  by  some  picknickers. 
It  was  empty,  and  on  the  gravel  near 
by  we  saw  footprints  almost  human  in 
shape,  only  smaller  and  toeing  in 
toward  each  other. 

We  knew  somehow  that  Timothy  had 
been  there.  It  was  almost  as  if  he  had 
known  we  would  pass  that  way,  and 
had  left  the  bottle  and  his  footprints 
where  we  would  see  them  to  tell  us  that 
we  were  not  forgotten,  nor  were  the 
things  we  had  taught  him. 


Part    Nine 

THE  BANDIT  BIRD 


Part  Nin 


The 

BANDIT  BIRD 


HOPE  the  fact  that  Hec- 
tor was  a  chicken  hawk 
will  not  prejudice  you 
against  him  unduly.  There 
are  brigands,  you  know, 
who  have  gentlemanly  instincts,  and  I 
am  sure  that  if  Hector  had  been  a 
bandit  chief,  he  would)  have  spared 
women  and  children  and  given  part  of 
his  plunderings  to  charity.  After  all, 
he  was  not  to  blame  for  being  a  hawk 
or  for  having  a  natural  liking  for  live 
poultry.  There  was  at  times  a  mourn- 
ful dignity  about  him,  as  if  he  resented 
the  unfair  workings  of  a  fate  which 
had  made  him  a  robber  bird,  a  tres- 
passer on  the  lives  of  other  creatures, 
and  at  enmity  with  every  living  thing. 

168 


Sometimes  the 
bandit  birds 
swooped  down 


He  was  a  beautiful  hawk  with  gray- 
brown  plumage,  wing  tips  that  turned 
slightly  upward  when  he  flew,  and  a 
fierce  and  royal  beak  curved  like  a 
scimitar.  His  eyes  were  very  black, 
very  bright,  and  very  knowing.  Most 
of  the  time  they  were  superbly  dis- 
dainful. But  Brother  and  I  have  seen 
them  when  they  actually  seemed  to 
smile. 

It  was  Brother  who  named  him,  for 

the  alliterative  privilege,  I  suspect,  of 

calling   him    "Hector,    the    Horrible 

Hawk."    But  that  was  only  in  fun.    For 

169 


HECTOR 
170 


he  was  not  horrible  at  all  when  we  got 
to  know  him.  Lazarus  thinks  other- 
wise, very  probably.  But  then  his  ex- 
perience with  Hector  was  a  trying  one, 
and  to  this  day — if  he  still  lives — he 
carries  the  marks  of  his  eventful  meet- 
ing with  our  friend,  the  robber  chief. 
Lazarus  was  a  pet  chicken,  son  of 
Sironda,  the  black  minorca  hen.  We 
gave  him  his  curious  name  because  he 
had  a  talent  for  venturing  very  near 
death's  door,  and  the  fact  that  we  al- 
ways saved  him  lent  appropriateness 
to  his  name.  Once  when  very  young, 
no  more  than  five  days  out  of  his  shell, 
he  was  all  but  scalped  by  a  rival  mother 
hen,  and  when  we  answered  his  frantic 
baby  peeps  for  help  his  head  was  bleed- 
ing profusely,  and  his  eyes  were  closed 
as  if  in  death.  We  sprinkled  water  on 
his  tiny  bill  and  salved  his  lacerated 
head.  And  he,  having  a  strong  consti- 
tution, came  back  from  the  tomb,  as  it 


HECTOR 
171 


were,  and  lived  a  long  and  eventful  life. 
In  order  to  care  for  him  better,  we  kept 
him  in  the  back-yard,  tucking  him  at 
night  into  a  small  box  under  flannel 
coverings.  He  thrived  and  grew  from 
chickhood  very  sturdily,  and  the  only 
ill  effect  that  remained  from  his  early 
mishap  was  that  he  was  quite  bald.  No 
feathers  ever  came  on  the  spot  where 
the  lady  hen  had  scalped  him,  and  we 
could  have  distinguished  him  from 
every  cockerel  of  his  size  and  color  in 
the  world  by  that  little  bare  place  on 
the  top  of  his  head. 

Now,  when  Lazarus  lost  his  first 
baby  down  and  was  in  that  shorn  and 
untidy  condition  which  always  pre- 
cedes the  growth  of  real  feathers,  he 
suddenly  became  lonesome  for  the  other 
members  of  the  poultry  yard.  He 
would  run  the  length  of  the  wire  fence, 
poking  his  head  through  the  small 
meshes,  and  more  than  once  he  nearly 


HECTOR 
172 


strangled  to  death  by  getting  it  caught. 
We  always  rescued  him  just  in  time  to 
save  his  life.  So  finally  we  allowed 
him  to  go  into  the  barnyard  with  the 
rest  of  his  kindred.  It  was  then  that 
Lazarus  had  the  big  adventure  of  his 
already  crowded  career.  His  meeting 
with  Hector  lifted  him  to  dizzy  heights 
— and  I  am  not  speaking  figuratively. 
It  really  did.  At  that,  it  wasn't  so  much 
a  meeting  as  an  abduction.  At  least 
Hector  intended  it  to  be  such. 

We  were  constantly  on  guard  to  keep 
hawks  away  from  the  ranch.  They 
waged  merciless  warfare  on  our  chick- 
ens, pigeons,  and  guinea-pigs,  and  there 
was  always  a  loaded,  double-barreled 
shotgun  behind  the  kitchen  door  ready 
for  action  in  case  of  an  air  raid.  When 
we  heard  the  frightened  flapping  of  the 
pigeons  as  they  flew  in  aimless  circles 
around  the  cabin  and  barn,  we  knew  a 
hawk  was  somewhere  overhead,  hover- 


ing  with  curved-up  wings  and  cruel, 
bright  eyes,  seeking  his  prey,  choos- 
ing it   calmly,   waiting   patiently   the 
proper  moment  to  swoop  down  upon 
it. 

The  chickens,  too,  always  told  us 
when  such  danger  was  near.  Prince, 
the  great  white  Plymouth  Rock  roost- 
er, would  set  up  a  long-drawn  cry  of 
warning,  and  the  hens  would  burst  into 
frenzied  cackling.  The  whole  poultry 
yard  would  cock  its  head  on  one  side 
to  get  a  better  view  of  the  air  robber, 
then  would  scoot  to  cover  of  the  barn 
or  hen-houses,  every  neck  ruff  dis- 
tended. Sometimes  it  was  a  false 
alarm.  A  crow  would  be  flying  peace- 
ably on  his  business,  or  a  sea-gull  would 
have  swerved  inland  a  bit.  Prince  took 
no  chances.  It  was  his  duty  to  guard 
the  poultry-yard,  and  he  believed  firm- 
ly in  the  policy  of  safety  first. 

But  many  times  the  warning  was  one 


of  real  danger.  A  hawk  would  indeed 
be  circling  slowly  above  the  barnyard, 
his  bright  eyes  fixed  calculatingly  on 
the  scurrying  fowls  below.  Then  one 
of  the  grown-ups  would  snatch  tha 
double-barreled  shotgun  from  behind 
the  kitchen  door  and  fire  at  the  winged 
plunderer.  The  shot,  though  it  did  not 
usually  kill,  always  frightened  the  air 
robber  away,  and  we  would  watch  him 
fly  lazily,  almost  contemptuously,  off 
toward  the  hill  and  the  thick  woods, 
his  powerful  wings  moving  steadily 
and  easily. 

Sometimes,  though,  the  bandit  birds 
came  and  swooped  down  on  their  prey 
— a  small  chick  or  a  baby  guinea-pig — 
before  we  could  prevent  it.  And  often 
a  bloody  bunch  of  feathers  near  the 
rookery  would  testify  to  the  murderous 
skill  of  a  hawk  and  the  sad  fate  of  a 
hapless  pigeon. 

It  was  on  a  day  when  the  grown-ups 


HECTOR 
175 


had  gone  to  town.  The  Old  Fisherman 
was  mending  his  nets  down  on  the  float 
in  front  of  the  cabin.  It  was  a  lazy 
summer  day,  and  Brother  and  I  were 
sitting  on  the  porch  steps  reading — the 
steps  that  were  made  of  roughly-hewn 
logs. 

All  at  once  we  heard  the  familiar 
danger  signal  of  Prince,  the  white 
rooster,  and  then  the  hens  began  to 
cackle  in  a  very  panic  of  fear.  We 
dropped  our  books,  but  before  we  could 
even  start  for  the  back-yard,  we  heard 
another  sound  which  seemed  so  impos- 
sible and  so  out  of  place  that  we  listened 
paralyzed  with  astonishment.  It  was 
the  shrill  and  frenzied  peeping  of  a 
half-grown  chicken  in  terrible  distress 
— and  the  sound  came  from  above  us! 

The  next  instant,  as  we  stood  star- 
ing, hardly  crediting  what  our  eyes 
told  us,  we  saw  a  large  chicken  hawk 
fly  slowly  past  the  cabin,  no  higher 


than  the  roof  of  the  porch.  He  flew 
so  slowly  and  at  such  a  short  distance 
from  the  earth  because  he  was  weighted 
down  with  a  live  and  struggling  young 
cockerel,  which  he  held  grimly  in  his 
sharp  talons!  There  was  a  shout  that 
came  from  our  throats  simultaneously, 
"Lazarus!" 

For  the  struggling,  shrilly-peeping 
victim  was  no  other  than  our  bald- 
headed  friend  whom  we  had  saved 
from  death  half  a  dozen  times  before. 
His  bare,  gangling  legs  hung  limply 
beneath  him ;  his  neck  jerked  spasmod- 
ically with  his  frantic  appeals  for  help. 
His  wings,  with  their  absurd  tufts  of 
feathers,  stuck  out  at  right  angles  from 
his  body,  for  the  hawk's  talons  were 
buried  in  the  flesh  beneath  them. 

At  the  time,  you  may  be  sure,  we  did 
not  wait  to  make  any  remarks  on  all 
these  observations.  With  one  thought 
Brother  and  I  plunged  through  the 


HECTOR 
177 


front  door,  back  into  the  kitchen,  and 
bumped  into  each  other  in  our  eager- 
ness to  get  the  gun.  It  was  Brother 
who  seized  it  first,  and  through  the  two 
rooms  we  dashed  again  and  out  into  the 
front  yard.  The  hawk  was  flying  slow- 
ly and  with  evident  difficulty — for 
Lazarus  was  a  healthy,  heavy  young- 
ster— ajcross  the  open  space  that  lay 
between  the  yard  of  the  cabin  and  the 
old  brickyard  shed  which  adjoined  it. 
Brother,  bent  back  almost  double  by 
the  weight  of  the  heavy  weapon, 
pressed  it  against  his  shoulder,  took 
careful  aim,  and  fired.  I  screamed, 
for  there  were  three  falls.  Brother 
tumbled  backward  from  the  kick  of 
the  shotgun.  Lazarus  hurtled  to  earth 
in  a  sprawl  of  legs  and  wings  and  lay 
there,  uttering  feeble,  choking  sounds. 
The  hawk  rocketed  down,  a  flutter  of 
gray-brown  feathers;  there  was  blood 
upon  the  grass  where  he  dropped. 


HECTOR 
178 


The  Old  Fisherman,  hearing  the 
commotion,  came  running  up  the  float, 
the  wooden  shuttle  with  which  he 
mended  nets  still  grasped  tightly  in  his 
hand. 

Brother  scrambled  to  his  feet,  blink- 
ing dazedly  at  the  result  of  his  marks- 
manship. Our  first  thought  was  that 
Lazarus  was  killed  at  last.  But  he 
was  apparently  only  severely  shaken 
by  his  fall,  for  presently  he  walked  off 
a  little  dizzily,  his  tender  skin  bleeding 
where  the  hawk's  talons  had  sunk  in. 

The  hawk  was  our  next  considera- 
tion. Now  that  we  had  wounded  him 
— I  say  "we,"  because  I  felt  that  the 
responsibility  was  half  mine — we  were 
sorry  for  his  plight.  He  was  thrash- 
ing about  helplessly  on  the  grass,  one 
wing  dragging  at  his  side.  He  was 
trying  desperately  to  fly,  but  could  not 
so  much  as  lift  himself  above  the 
ground.  His  fierce,  dark  eyes  blazed 


at  us,  and  his  powerful,  curved  beak 
snapped  menacingly  when  we  ap- 
proached him.  But  at  last  his  strength 
failed  him,  the  bleeding  wing  spread 
itself  out  in  a  fan,  and  he  sank  over  on 
one  side,  his  talons  jerking  spasmodic- 
ally. As  we  came  nearer  he  regarded 
us  with  eyes  that  were  unafraid.  They 
even  seemed  dull  with  apathy,  as  if  he 
knew  that  the  end  had  come  and  that 
he,  like  the  robber  aristocrat  that  he 
was,  must  accept  it  philosophically. 

The  Old  Fisherman  was  for  ending 
his  life  then  and  there.  But  Brother 
and  I  could  not  bear  to  have  him  killed, 
for  he  was  at  our  mercy,  hurt  and  help- 
less. For  the  first  time  in  our  lives  we 
had  deliberately  wounded  something 
that  lived  and  had  feelings  even  as  we. 
The  knowledge  that  we  had  fired  upon 
him  to  save  our  friend's  life  was  not 
sufficient  excuse  for  us  to  allow 
the  Old  Fisherman  to  kill  him. 


HECTOR 
1 80 


So  together  we  caught  him,  tied  his 
fierce  beak  so  he  could  not  snap  at  us, 
bound  his  powerful  legs  so  that  his 
talons  should  not  tear  our  hands,  then 
the  Old  Fisherman,  grumblingly,  but 
gently,  bathed  and  salved  the  injured 
wing.  In  time  it  would  be  as  good  as 
new,  he  told  us,  but  he  didn't  know 
what  our  folks  would  say  to  our  saving 
the  life  of  a "pesterin',  low-lived  hawk." 

As  he  anticipated,  the  grown-ups 
were  not  at  all  pleased  when  they  re- 
turned from  town  and  found  Hector — 
he  had  been  named  by  that  time — tied 
by  one  leg  to  a  stake  in  the  back-yard, 
his  right  wing  sadly  out  of  focus  and 
smeared  with  a  clot  of  blood.  But  it 
was  not  in  their  kindly  hearts  to  kill  in 
cold  blood,  so  they  let  the  hawk  live. 

For  the  first  few  days  that  Hector 
was  in  our  midst  he  did  little  except  to 
tug  at  the  chain  which  bound  him  to  the 
stake,  slowly  and  automatically,  like  a 


HECTOR 

181 


man  taking  morning  exercises  with 
rubber  ropes.  He  hated  us  and  re- 
pulsed our  attentions  fiercely  and  scorn- 
fully. He  refused  to  eat  the  tempting 
bits  of  raw  meat  that  we  spread  before 
him;  he  sulked  all  day  with  his  curved 
beak  hidden  in  the  ruffled  feathers  of 
his  breast.  He  was  indeed  like  a  rob- 
ber chieftain  in  captivity.  We  were 
patient,  however,  for  we  knew  that  ac- 
cording to  Hector's  viewpoint  we  had 
injured  him  without  reason.  He  had 
been  in  search  of  his  dinner — a  perfect- 
ly legitimate  occupation  for  any  one — 
and  as  he  was  carrying  it  off  we  had  not 
only  robbed  him  of  it,  but  wounded  him 
grievously.  You  can  see  that  he  had  a 
great  deal  of  logic  on  his  side. 

But  little  by  little  his  haughty  antag- 
onism melted  before  our  daily  over- 
tures. He  no  longer  snapped  at  us 
when  we  came  near,  and  began  to  take 
an  active  interest  in  the  food  we 


brought  him.  There  came  a  day 
when  he  allowed  me  to  put  my  hand  on 
the  soft,  smooth  feathers  of  his  head 
and  back,  and  when  I  gently  massaged 
his  wounded  wing1  with  vaseline  he 
opened  his  beak  as  if  to  bite  my  hand 
but  closed  it  without  doing  me  harm. 

Then,  wonder  of  wonders,  Hector 
began  to  like  us.  When  he  saw  us 
coming  into  the  back-yard  he  would  set 
up  a  sort  of  dancing,  jumping  up  and 
down  stiff-legged,  spreading  out  his 
dark  wings,  and  straining  at  the  chain. 
His  beak  would  snap  open  and  shut, 
and  his  bright,  black  eyes  seemed  ac- 
tually to  have  a  smile  in  them.  He 
would  allow  me  to  salve  his  injury 
with  only  the  faintest  suggestion  of  ner- 
vousness in  his  half-open  beak,  and 
on  the  day  when  we  unchained  his  leg 
from  the  stake  he  sat  on  my  hand  with 
all  the  dignity  of  an  emperor  receiving 
his  court  after  a  long  illness. 


HECTOR 
183 


From  that  time  on  we  gave  Hector 
his  liberty  for  a  few  hours  each  day. 
And  always,  before  releasing  him,  we 
would  take  the  precaution  to  feed  him 
well.  We  did  not  intend  to  have  any 
fatalities  among  the  poultry  if  we  could 
help  it.  But  even  with  a  full  stomach, 
he  worried  the  barn-yard  into  a  daily 
spasm  of  fear.  For  as  he  regained  the 
use  of  his  wing,  he  would  fly  slowly, 
majestically,  over  the  poultry  pens, 
turning  his  head  from  side  to  side  as 
hawks  do  when  they  are  picking  their 
prey  and  calculating  the  time  for  the 
swoop  to  earth.  Brother  and  I  be- 
lieved firmly  that  Hector  had  no  inten- 
tion of  snatching  up  a  chick  or  a  pigeon, 
that  his  daily  flight  was  merely  by  way 
of  exercise  and  for  the  dramatic  satis- 
faction it  gave  him  to  see  the  feathered 
crew  below  him  so  disturbed. 

At  any  rate,  he  never  once  attempted 
to  harm  any  of  our  live  stock.  Per- 


haps  it  was  because  we  fed  him  so  well, 
but  Brother  and  I  preferred  to  think 
it  was  because  he  was  a  gentleman,  and 
that  he  would  not  betray  our  confidence 
when  we  trusted  him  to  do  the  right 
thing. 

This  daily  flight  of  Hector's  was 
most  annoying  to  the  grown-ups,  how- 
ever. In  the  first  place,  the  hens  were 
not  laying  so  well  as  they  had.  They 
were  frightened  out  of  all  nesting  de- 
sire by  Hector's  calm  aerial  prome- 
nades, and  were  in  a  continual  state  of 
nervous  excitement.  Then,  too,  when 
Prince  gave  the  danger  signal  and  all 
the  hens  ran  for  cover  with  their  chicks, 
the  grown-ups  would  dash  out  of  the 
house  each  time  ready  to  fire  upon  a 
strange  marauder,  only  to  be  confronted 
with  Hector  making  peaceable  spirals 
above  the  hen-houses.  He  would  come 
to  us  when  we  whistled  shrilly,  and 
would  sit  quietly  on  my  wrist  to  nibble 


HECTOR 
185 


at  a  piece  of  cooky  as  if  he  had  never 
had  a  carnivorous  thought  in  his  life. 
I  should  like  to  tell  you  that  he  and 
Lazarus  became  friends  after  the  hawk 
had  become  partially  domesticated,  but 
such  was  never  the  case.  Lazarus  used 
to  come  stalking  into  the  back-yard,  his 
legs  much  too  long  for  the  rest  of  him, 
and  a  tiny,  serrated,  red  comb  sticking 
up  from  the  bald  spot  on  his  head. 
His  body  was  still  almost  bare,  though 
a  generous  tuft  of  feathers  on  his  tail 
showed  where  he  might  in  time  expect 
some  real  plumage.  He  still  carried 
the  scars  of  his  aerial  adventure  under 
his  wings.  He  would  approach  Hec- 
tor cautiously,  craning  his  neck  in  and 
out  with  a  curious  rubberized  effect, 
and  would  stop  at  a  safe  distance,  turn- 
ing his  head  on  one  side,  giving  Hector 
a  timorous  inspection  from  the  broad- 
side of  one  amber  eye.  And 
Hector  ^f^  would  return  the  look 


scornfully,  his  curved  beak  giving  him 
a  morose,  sneering  expression.  His 
whole  attitude  seemed  to  say,  "Never 
mind,  I'll  get  you  next  time!" 

As  Hector  grew  stronger  and  could 
fly  better,  the  grown-ups  gave  the  ulti- 
matum that  we  must  dispose  of  him  in 
some  way.  It  was  too  dangerous,  they 
said,  to  have  a  chicken  hawk  around  the 
ranch.  In  vain  we  argued  that  Hector 
was  a  gentleman,  that  he  would  not 
bother  any  of  our  poultry.  But  to  our 
sorrow,  they  said  that  he  should  be 
taken  to  the  city  and  presented  to  the 
zoological  gardens  there. 

Brother  and  I  told  Hector  what  was 
going  to  happen  to  him,  and  that  it 
was  not  in  our  power  to  prevent  his 
going,  and  it  seemed  to  us  that  he  was 
very  thoughtful  afterward.  We  shall 
always  believe  that  what  happened 
was  the  direct  result  of  the  grown-ups' 
decision  to  send  him  into  captivity, 


HECTOR 
187 


although,  you  understand,  we  could 
not  blame  them.  They  had  been  more 
than  kind  to  our  somewhat  dangerous 
guest. 

The  next  day  when  we  released  our 
robber  chieftain  from  his  stake,  he  flew 
up  over  the  cabin  roof,  circled  once 
around  it,  then  flew  northward  along 
the  beach  and  was  soon  out  of  sight. 
When  night  came  Hector  did  not  re- 
turn. And  though  Brother  and  I  stood 
in  the  yard  whistling  until  we  were 
breathless,  there  was  no  sudden  swoop 
of  a  gray-brown  bird  from  the  air,  no 
Hector  to  curve  sharp  talons  gently 
around  my  wrist. 

The  next  morning,  when  we  went  for 
milk  at  the  neighboring  ranch,  we  knew 
why  our  friend  had  not  come  back  to  us. 
On  the  fence  outside  the  barn,  hung 
limply  over  the  pickets  just  as  he  had 
fallen,  was  a  draggled  bunch  of  gray- 
brown  feathers  that  had  once  been  our 


beautiful  Hector,  the  Robber  Chief. 
The  wide  wings  were  powerless  now, 
the  body  was  riddled  with  fine  shot,  the 
once  proud  head  with  its  curved  beak 
drooped  pitifully.  The  fierce  dark  eyes 
were  closed.  Never  again  would  Hec- 
tor perform  his  dance  of  joy  at  our  com- 
ing, never  again  would  he  stare  ap- 
praisingly  at  Lazarus,  or  frighten  the 
hens  and  pigeons  with  his  lazy  circles 
above  their  heads. 

The  rancher  told  us  he  had  shot  the 
hawk  the  day  before.  And  he  could 
not  understand  why  we  wept  over  the 
blood-stained  bunch  of  feathers.  He 
did  not  know  that  Hector  was  a  friend 
of  ours — and  a  gentleman. 

Brother  and  I  always  thought  that 
Hector  deliberately  courted  death 
rather  than  spend  his  life  in  yearning 
captivity.  And  I,  for  one,  am  glad  he 
did.  For  no  one  else  would  have  un- 
derstood him  and  loved  him  as  we  did. 


Part  Ten 


Her  nostrils  dilated  at  the  hated 
human  scent. 


MY  FRIEND  THE  PRINCESS 


HIS  is  not  my  story,  except 
incidentally.  It  is  the  story 
of  a  Bengal  tigress  named 
Princess,   with   a   coat  of 
dull    gold     striped    with 
ebony.    A  restless,  sullen  tigress,  pad- 
ding the  length  of  her  narrow  cage, 
with  amber  eyes  staring  out  at  some 
189 


vision  beyond  the  iron  bars,  with  tawny 
lips  half  drawn  back  from  white, 
pointed  fangs.  A  tigress  with  some- 
thing high  and  noble  in  her  steady  pac- 
ing, her  air  of  absolute  detachment 
from  everything  around  her.  When  I 
met  her  I  was  no  longer  a  child  living 
near  Puget  Sound,  but  had  quite  grown 
up  and  moved  to  California,  and  to  city 
life  far  from  my  woodland  friends  of 
earlier  and  sweeter  years. 

Princess  lives  in  a  motion-picture 
studio's  menagerie  now,  but  there  was 
a  time  when  she  knew  the  hot,  marshy 
smell  of  the  Bengal  jungles,  when  she 
crouched,  tense  in  every  muscle,  to 
spring  upon  a  fat  bullock,  when  she 
padded  through  narrow  jungle  trails  to 
drink  at  the  hidden  pool  which  only  the 
forest  creatures  knew. 

She  was  caught  in  a  tiger  pit,  they 
told  me,  when  little  more  than  a  cub. 
She  had  been  purchased  first  by  a  cir- 


PRINCESS 
191 


cus,  and  then  by  the  motion-picture 
company  which  owns  her  now.  They 
told  me  she  was  fierce  and  utterly  with- 
out affection.  And  indeed  she  looked 
so,  pacing  back  and  forth  in  her  iron- 
barred  cage,  her  breath  coming  in  a 
hissing  snarl  as  she  noted  our  presence, 
her  amber  eyes  widening  ever  so  little 
as  she  caught  our  scent. 

Still  I  could  not  think  Princess  was 
so  terrible.  I  could  not  find  it  in  my 
heart  to  be  afraid  of  her.  I  pitied  her. 
There  was  something  unbearably  pa- 
thetic in  her  constant  pacing.  It  seemed 
to  me  that  I  could  actually  feel  the 
longing  of  her  caged  heart  to  be  out  in 
the  open  again,  to  lope  down  jungle 
trails,  to  lie  stretched  out  on  rocks 
warm  with  Indian  sunshine.  There 
was  no  enmity  in  the  look  she  turned 
on  us,  only  indifference,  and — was  it 
pleading? 

It  was  my  first  visit  to  the  studio. 


PRINCESS 
192 


And  I  carried  away  with  me  that  pic- 
ture of  Princess  in  her  cramped  cage, 
pacing,  pausing,  sniffing  at  the  air 
heavy  with  human  scent,  her  amber 
eyes  seeing  something  afar  off,  some- 
thing we  could  not  understand — 

Then  I  discovered  that  the  keeper  of 
the  menagerie  was  an  old  friend  of 
mine.  "Pudgy"  he  was  nicknamed. 
He  was  short  and  rotund,  and  trained 
animals  with  kindness  instead  of  whips. 
I  had  known  him  in  the  Puget  Sound 
country  when  Brother  and  I  were  chil- 
dren. A  woodsman  he  had  been  then, 
and  with  a  tiny  little  cabin  near  Green 
Point.  We  had  visited  him  often,  for 
he  shared  our  love  for  the  things  of  the 
open.  He  had  had  a  tame  deer  whose 
name  was  Nellie,  and  he  had  nursed 
back  to  health  a  bobcat  that  he  had 
rescued  from  a  trap  in  the  High 
Sierras.  It  was  not  strange 
that  with  his  love  of  animals 


Pudgy  should  finally  come  into  a  po- 
sition as  keeper  of  a  motion-picture 
menagerie.    Many  years   had    passed 
since  we  had  seen  each  other,  but  when 
we  met  by  chance — I  was  of  the  press 
— we  renewed  old  acquaintance,  and 
found    pleasure    in   talking   of    Puget 
Sound  and  of  the  woods  creatures  we 
had  loved. 

Through  him  I  came  to  know  per- 
sonally the  animals  in  the  menagerie. 
I  was  introduced  to  the  Russian  wolves, 
to  the  lions,  to  the  bears,  and  to  Princess 
the  tigress.  I  think  he  liked  her  best  of 
all  the  wild  things  there,  and  I  am  sure 
I  did.  There  was  something  about  her 
cheated  strength,  her  restrained  power, 
that  made  my  heart  go  out  to  her.  I 
never  failed  to  visit  her  when  I  went  to 
the  studio,  and  I  liked  to  think  that  she 
knew  me  and  recognized  me  as  a  friend. 

It  was  several  weeks  after  Pudgy 
and  I  renewed  our  old  friendship  that 


PRINCESS 

194 


they  told  me  at  the  studio  that  Princess, 
the  glorious  Bengal  tigress,  was  to  be 
killed.  She  had  grown  unmanageable 
for  picture  work,  they  said,  too  sullen 
and  too  treacherous.  The  picture  in 
hand  called  for  a  tiger  hunt.  She  was 
to  be  sacrificed  for  the  sake  of  reality 
and  shot  down.  Her  pelt,  they  added,, 
would  be  worth  a  great  deal  of  money. 

But  I  could  not  think  of  Princess  in 
terms  of  a  pelt  that  was  worth  money. 
I  felt  as  if  a  human  being  had  been  sen- 
tenced to  death.  Because  she  could  not 
find  it  in  her  royal  heart  to  cringe 
beneath  the  trainer's  lash,  she  was  to 
die;  because  she  was  queenly,  and  un- 
afraid, she  no  longer  had  the  right  to 
live. 

I  have  seen  the  tortures  wild  animals 
go  through  in  making  pictures.  How 
they  are  prodded  with  pointed  sticks, 
made  to  jump  into  water  from  great 
heights,  and  forced  to  run  through 


blazing  brush.  I  have  seen  lions  and 
tigers  struck  cruelly  on  their  sensitive 
noses  to  make  them  register  rage.  All 
these  things  had  Princess  suffered  from 
trainers  and  directors.  I  did  not  blame 
her  for  rebelling. 

I  came  upon  Pudgy  as  he  sat  on  a 
bench  near  Princess's  cage,  his  chin  in 
his  hand,  and  he  was  staring  at  her 
while  she  paced  restlessly  back  and 
forth  with  hissing  intakes  of  breath. 

"They  are  going  to  kill  her,"  he  said 
slowly,  "just  because  they  can't  break 
her  spirit." 

I  sat  beside  him,  and  together  we 
watched  Princess.  Pudgy  told  me  how 
he  had  tried  to  ease  the  fear  and  hatred 
of  humans  in  the  heart  of  the  jungle 
tigress  by  being  especially  nice  to  her. 
How,  when  she  had  hurt  herself  jump- 
ing from  a  springboard  into  a  lake 
with  sharp  rocks  in  it,  he  had  gone 
into  the  cage  and  bathed  the  swollen 


PRINCESS 
196 


paw,  and  how  she  had  licked  his  hand 
with  her  huge,  grating  tongue.  Once 
she  had  had  a  swelling  on  her  throat; 
he  was  the  only  one  whom  she  suffered 
to  minister  to  it.  And  again,  when 
she  had  sickened  with  fever,  he  had 
stayed  in  her  cage  a  night  and  a  day, 
moistening  her  tongue  with  water  and 
watching  until  her  eyes  lost  their  glazed 
stare  and  became  normal  once  more. 

"And  they're  going  to  kill  her,"  he 
repeated  slowly,  "just  because  she  can't 
understand  the  treatment  they've  given 
her — because  she's  not  afraid  of  their 
whips  any  more." 

His  voice  almost  broke.  And  my 
heart  went  out  to  him  and  to  the  tawny 
wild  thing  in  the  barred  cage.  If  he 
could  only  make  the  Powers  under- 
stand, I  told  him.  If  only  he  could 
make  them  realize  that  Princess  was 
not  wantonly  ferocious,  only  tortured 

into  savagery  by  unkind  treatment. 


He  shook  his  head.  The  Powers,  he 
said,  understood  nothing  that  did  not 
have  a  dollar  mark  attached. 

So  the  day  was  set  when  Princess  was 
to  die.  It  was  to  be  in  the  out-of-door 
arena,  an  oval  piece  of  ground  enclosed 
in  upright  bars  and  strong  steel  wire. 
At  the  back  was  a  miniature  thicket  of 
bamboo,  ferns,  and  marsh  grass.  At 
the  front  was  the  camera  cage,  strong- 
ly barred  to  prevent  danger  from  the 
wild  animals  being  photographed  in  ac- 
tion. 

My  visit  to  the  menagerie  that  day 
was  accidental.  I  did  not  know  that 
the  tigress  was  to  be  killed.  I  had  only 
been  told  that  an  interesting  picture 
was  being  made  in  the  arena.  So  I 
pushed  my  way  through  the  double 
line  of  carpenters,  actors,  and  on- 
lookers, to  the  very  bars  of  the  huge 
out-of-door  cage.  The  camera  man 
was  already  in  his  barred  enclos- 


ure,  and  inside  the  arena  the  director, 
a  slim-waisted  man  with  a  black  mus- 
tache, was  outlining  the  action  of  the 
scene  to  the  hero  of  the  picture,  who, 
attired  in  a  hunting  costume,  dabbed  at 
his  face  with  a  yellow  powder-puff. 

"The  tiger  comes  bounding  out  of 
the  jungle,"  the  director  was  saying, 
"and  you  shoot  from  behind  that  log. 
Never  mind  if  you  don't  get  her  the 
first  shot.  I'll  have  my  gun  on  her,  and 
I'll  finish  her  off.  There's  no  danger." 

My  heart  stopped  and  then  thumped 
painfully.  I  had  stumbled  unknow- 
ingly on  the  scene  of  Princess's  execu- 
tion. I  felt  sickened.  I  could  not  bear 
to  stay  and  see  her  shot  at — wounded 
first  by  an  ill-aimed  rifle,  then  fired 
upon  until  she  dropped,  an  inert  mass 
of  tawny  gold  and  black — 

I  turned  away,  tried  to  press  through 
the  crowd.  But  there  were  too  many 
people.  Every  one  from  the  studio  had 


PRINCESS 
199 


ceased  work  to  come  and  see  the  spec- 
tacular death  of  Princess,  the  Bengal 
tigress. 

I  was  dimly  aware  that  men  were 
rolling  a  cage  on  wheels  up  to  the  side 
entrance  of  the  arena.  From  between 
the  bars  I  caught  a  glint  of  sunlight  on 
a  body  of  savage  beauty.  I  saw,  too,  the 
white,  drawn  face  of  Pudgy,  standing 
by  the  side  of  the  cage. 

Some  one  opened  the  side  gate  of  the 
arena.  The  director  and  the  actor  were 
still  talking.  The  director  was  showing 
graphically  how  the  other  should  come 
out  of  the  jungle,  should  listen  for  the 
tigress's  coming,  should  drop  behind 
the  log  and  fire — 

What  happened  then  I  can  scarcely 
remember.  It  was  all  so  sudden,  so 
breath-taking.  A  confusion  of  signals 
had  been  the  cause,  they  told  me  after- 
ward. The  man  at  the  cage  thought 
the  opening  of  the  arena  gate  was  the 


signal  to  release  Princess — and  he  had 
opened  the  door  of  her  cage! 

There  was  a  shout  that  died  away 
in  a  gasp  of  many  breaths,  a  silence  that 
was  like  a  great  commotion — for  Prin- 
cess, the  royal  Bengal  tigress,  crashed 
through  the  flimsy  greenery  of  the 
mimic  jungle  and  like  a  tawny  statue 
stopped  short,  her  head  raised,  her  am- 
ber eyes  wide. 

It  was  a  nightmare,  that  terrible  in- 
stant. No  one  moved.  The  director's 
face  went  pasty  white,  the  actor's  red- 
lined  mouth  had  fallen  open.  There 
in  that  oval  cage  the  two  puny  men 
faced  the  magnificent  creature  of  the 
wilds,  faced  the  animal  they  had 
planned  to  kill — and  they  were  help- 
less. 

Only  the  briefest  moment  did  the 
tableau  last.  For  Princess's  nostrils  di- 
lated with  the  hated  human  scent,  her 
eyes  narrowed  to  slits,  her  nose 


wrinkled  back,  and  she  snarled.  The 
director  was  speaking  jerkily  with- 
out moving — saying  that  no  one  must 
scream — telling  some  one  to  bring  the 
gun- 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice  the  tigress 
dropped  to  a  crouch.  Her  tail  lashed 
her  sides.  I  could  not  take  my  eyes 
from  the  arena.  My  throat  was  dry.  I 
was  vaguely  conscious  that  a  man  had 
pushed  past  me.  It  was  Pudgy,  the 
menagerie  keeper. 

For  a  scant  second  a  lower  crouch — 
a  long-drawn  snarl — then  a  voice  spoke, 
quietly,  sharply. 

"Princessf 

At  the  sound  of  the  keeper's  voice, 
the  tigress  lifted  her  head  ever  so  little, 
and  her  amber,  black-rimmed  eyes 
turned  toward  him. 

"Princess  1"  he  said  again.  "Keep 
back — steady,  old  girl  1" 

He  had  unfastened  the  front  gate 


PRINCESS 
2O2 


of  the  arena  and  opened  it.  He  was  un- 
armed; he  carried  not  so  much  as  a 
whip.  Yet  he  went  toward  her  quietly, 
talking  in  a  gentle  monotone,  and  she 
snarled  at  him  as  he  came.  But  he 
walked  quickly,  confidently.  He  placed 
himself  between  the  two  men  and  the 
crouching  tigress.  Then  he  planted 
his  feet  far  apart  and  smiled  down  at 
her. 

"Maybe  you're  mad  at  these  folks, 
but  you  wouldn't  be  mad  at  me — your 
old  pal,"  he  said  softly. 

There  was  a  moment  of  sickening 
suspense.  Then  the  snarl  died  on  Prin- 
cess's lips,  her  tail  ceased  its  frenzied 
lashing,  and  she  rose  from  her  crouch- 
ing position. 

"The  danger  is  over,"  Pudgy  said 
quietly  to  the  men  behind  him.  "Just 
move  out  toward  the  door.  Take  your 
time.  Don't  run." 

Then  he  spoke  to  the  tigress  again : 


PRINCESS 
203 


"Into  your  cage,  old  girl,  right  out 
through  the  same  door  you  came  in — 
Out  you  go — It's  all  right,  lady — Don't 
be  frightened — You  know  your  old  pal 
wouldn't  do  anything  to  hurt  you — " 

He  was  stepping  forward  toward 
her,  urging  her  gently  but  firmly  back 
through  the  side  gate  of  the  enclosure. 
She  snarled  as  she  went,  and  stopped 
once  to  roar  full-throated  defiance. 
But  the  mild  little  man  talked  to  her 
always,  caressing  her  with  his  voice, 
comforting  her  with  the  assurance 
that  she  was  not  to  be  hurt.  The  tawny 
body  slipped  through  the  door  into  the 
wagon  cage — the  door  clanged  after 
her — it  was  over. 

Pudgy  came  out  of  the  arena  at  the 
gate  where  he  had  entered.  His  face 
was  calm,  his  hands  untrembling.  I 
pushed  past  the  people  in  front  of  me 
and  in  a  moment  was  beside  him. 

"Tell  them,  oh,  tell  them  nowl"  I 


PRINCESS 
204 


whispered.  And  Pudgy,  because  he, 
too,  loved  the  things  of  the  wild,  under- 
stood me. 

"Do  you  think  it  would  do  any 
good?"  he  questioned  under  his  breath, 
and  I  nodded,  being  almost  past  speech. 
Together  we  sought  the  director  of 
the  picture.  He  was  one  of  the  Powers. 
His  word  would  mean  much. 

He  was  still  white-lipped  and 
breathless,  but  he  attempted  a  wan 
smile  as  he  shook  Pudgy's  hand. 

"Well,  she  almost  got  us,"  he  spoke 
with  forced  cheerfulness.  "If  it  hadn't 
been  for  you — "  He  shuddered  in  spite 
of  himself.  "If  there's  anything  I  can 
do,  old  man,  to  show  my  gratitude — " 
Pudgy's  eyes  turned  toward  the 
wagon  cage  where  Princess  had  com- 
menced her  endless  pacing.  She  was 
still  snarling  softly,  as  if  dreaming  of 
the  vengeance  on  man  which  had  al- 
most been  hers. 


"Maybe  you  don't  know  it,"  he 
said   slowly,    "but   the    real    reason 
Princess  obeyed  me  was  because  she 
knows  me  and  likes  me.    She  knows  I 
like  her,  too,  and  she  wouldn't  do  any- 
thing to  make  me  feel  bad.    And  if  you 
really  mean  what  you  say — about  doing 
something — why,  let  Princess  live.  She 
— she's  a  friend  of  mine." 

There  was  a  short  silence.  The  di- 
rector was  staring  at  him  curiously. 

"That  tiger — that  bloodthirsty  beast 
— a  friend  of  yours?"  he  said  incredu- 
lously. 

"Yes,"  answered  Pudgy  simply. 
"She's  just  that,  and  I  don't  want  her 
killed." 

The  director  turned  away,  walked  a 
few  short  steps,  and  halted.  "All 
right,"  he  said  briefly,  "if  that's  the 
way  of  it — I'll  see  what  I  can  do." 

As  I  said  before,  this  is  not  my  story. 
I  wish  it  were.  I  should  love  to  have 


PRINCESS 
206 


the  friendship  of  that  wonderful  tigress 
as  Pudgy  has  it.  But  at  least  I  always 
make  it  a  point,  when  at  the  studio,  to 
pay  a  brief  visit  to  Princess,  the  Royal 
Bengal.  She  paces  unceasingly  and 
stares  at  something  beyond  the  bars 
which  humans  may  not  see.  But  be- 
cause Pudgy  has  let  me  come  inside  the 
railing,  and  has  told  Princess  that  I 
helped,  a  very  little  bit,  in  obtaining 
her  reprieve  from  the  death  sentence, 
I  like  to  think  that  her  amber  eyes  as 
they  rest  on  me  are  not  fierce,  but  kind- 
ly, and  that  she  knows  that  I  love  her 
and  wish  her  well. 


Part  Eleven 

ETHEL  OF  THE  WILD 
HEART 


Part  Eleven 


For  I  saw  her,  not  a  savage,  blood- 
thirsty beast,  but  a  wild  thing  of  the 
deep  woods,  ruled  by  pain  instead  of 
kindliness. 


Part  Eleven 


ETHEL 


WILD  HEART 


HIS  is  the  story  of  a  lioness 
in  a  cage  at  a  great  mov- 
ing-picture studio — a  lean, 
tawny  lioness  with  slant- 
ing, amber  eyes  and  flex- 
ible muscles  that  undulated  under  the 
loose  skin  like  ripples  of  water  under 
a  blanket  of  kelp. 

They  said,  the  people  of  the  studio, 
that  Ethel  was  savage,  that  she  had 
clawed  a  trainer  and  injured  an  actor 
for  life,  that  she  hated  women  and 
would  not  tolerate  the  touch  of  a  human 
hand.  And  they  thought  me  a  little 
mad  when  I  wanted  to  go  into  the  cage 
where  she  and  four  other  lions  were 
taking  their  exercise. 

309 


ETHEL 
2IO 


But  I  was  of  the  press,  so  I  was  per- 
mitted to  enter  the  cage  with  the  train- 
er, to  go  through  the  doubled-barred 
iron  doors,  and  to  stand  very  quietly 
while  the  keeper  of  the  lions,  with  a 
long  whip,  lashed  the  snarling  animals 
to  their  pedestals. 

Of  them  all,  Ethel  was  the  most  sav- 
age. Her  eyes  blazed  with  a  wicked 
light  that  burned  green  behind  the  am- 
ber; her  tail  lashed  furiously  when  the 
trainer  flicked  her  with  his  whip;  and 
afraid  as  she  undoubtedly  was,  the 
courage  of  her  spirit  showed  itself  in 
her  stubborn  crouch  and  the  vicious 
striking  of  her  powerful  paws  when- 
ever the  lash  came  near  her. 

She  fascinated  me.  The  other  lions 
were  cowed,  it  seemed,  by  long  experi- 
ence with  the  stinging  whip.  They  took 
their  places  protesting  and  snarling,  but 
with  alacrity  none  the  less.  Ethel 
would  not  obey.  In  defiance  of  the 


stern  commands  of  the  trainer  and  the 
leather  thong  which  flicked  remorse- 
lessly about  her  eyes  and  nose,  she 
would  leap  from  one  side  of  the  cage  to 
the  other,  crouch  for  an  instant,  then 
spring  again,  shaking  the  bars  in  her 
frenzied  attempts  to  escape  the  per- 
secuting lash,  while  the  other  lions 
watched  her  from  their  pedestals  un- 
easily, with  guttural  intakes  of  breath 
and  occasional  snarls. 

Do  you  wonder  what  I  felt  when 
Ethel  careened  about  the  cage,  stub- 
born, disobedient,  mad  with  rage  as 
well  as  with  a  terror  born  of  pain?  At 
first  I  felt  fear,  a  fear  as  unreasoning 
as  that  of  the  lioness.  For  in  one  of  her 
crazed  leaps  she  brushed  against  me, 
so  that  I  was  pushed  sharply  against 
the  iron  bars  of  the  cage. 

"Do  you  want  to  go  out?"  the  trainer 
was  asking  me,  and  I  shook  my  head, 
for  I  could  not  speak. 


Then  suddenly  the  fear  left  me.  The 
thread  of  ice  which  had  seemed  to  run 
from  the  top  of  my  head  to  the  very 
soles  of  my  feet  melted  away  as  though 
in  a  warm  sunshine.  For  Ethel, 
crouching  in  snarling  defiance,  had 
suddenly  raised  her  head.  For  an  in- 
stant we  measured  each  other,  eye  to 
eye.  And  in  that  moment  I  remem- 
bered another  wild  thing — this  one  un- 
caged— and  I  remembered  myself  a 
little  girl  alone  on  the  Hill  Trail, 
facing  the  amber  eyes  of  one  of  Ethel's 
distant  kin.  I  want  to  tell  you  what  I 
remembered,  so  that  you  will  know 
why  the  ice  thread  was  melted  and  why 
things  happened  in  that  barred  cage 
that  the  trainer  said  had  never  hap- 
pened before. 

It  was  while  we  still  lived  in  the  little 
cabin  on  the  Bay,  and  I  was  yet  a  child. 
Brother  had  gone  away  to  school,  and  I 
was  lonely,  so  more  than  ever  I  sought 


ETHEL 
213 


the  woods  and  the  companionship  of 
the  woods  creatures  there. 

It  was  a  sultry  day  in  August  when 
the  juncoes  were  flying  in  panicky 
flocks,  and  when  a  haze  of  smoke  was 
in  the  air  that  told  of  forest  fires  not  so 
far  away.  All  the  night  before  the  sky 
in  the  west  had  been  reddened  with  a 
dull  glow  that  gradually  grew  brighter, 
and  though  we  had  no  fear  for  our- 
selves since  a  cleared  space  lay  between 
the  wooded  hills  and  the  cabin  we  were 
sorry  for  the  wild  things  of  the  woods 
who  would  be  forced  to  flee  from  the 
red  monster  that  devoured  their  homes 
so  relentlessly. 

The  air  that  day  was  oppressive,  for 
the  smoke  hung  low,  and  if  we  listened 
carefully,  we  could  hear  the  distant 
crackling  of  tall  pines  with  gum- 
smeared  trunks  on  fire,  and  the  occas- 
ional crash  of  a  giant  fir,  tortured  to 
long  by  licking  flames. 


ETHEL 
214 


I  sought  the  Hill  Trail,  listening,  as 
I  climbed,  to  the  ominous  crackle  of 
burning  trees,  much  nearer  than  I 
would  have  wished.  And  perhaps  it 
was  because  of  that  intentness  that  I 
came,  without  realizing  it,  face  to  face 
with  a  wildcat,  the  largest  I  have  ever 
seen,  stretched  across  the  trail,  only  a 
few  feet  in  front  of  me. 

For  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  knew 
the  fear  of  which  men  and  books  tell 
you.  Many  had  been  the  stories  told  by 
hunters  who  passed  the  cabin,  of  the 
ferocity  of  mountain  lions  and  wildcats, 
although  none  of  them  had  ever  been 
seen  in  the  woods  around  us,  because 
civilization  was  too  near.  These  beasts, 
said  the  hunters,  kept  to  the  higher 
hills  and  the  deeper  wooded  forests, 
where  game  abounded  and  men  seldom 
came.  So  when  I  saw  the  tawny  animal 
so  close  that  one  light  spring  would 

have  carried  the  powerful  body  upon 


me,  my  first  impulse  was  to  run — 
blindly,  madly — to  run  until  I  could 
run  no  more,  or  until  the  fierce  claws 
of  the  great  cat  should  bear  me  to  the 
ground — 

The  wildcat  had  not  moved  except  to 
lift  its  head  ever  so  slightly  and  to  draw 
back  its  jowls  in  a  hissing  snarl  that 
displayed  cruel,  white  fangs.  The  am- 
ber eyes  watched  me  without  flickering, 
yet  in  them  I  saw  distrust,  startled  an- 
ger, and  ever  so  little  of  a  desire  to 
spring — to  kill — 

In  that  one  instant  I  had  many 
thoughts — dizzy,  rambling  thoughts, 
that  chased  themselves  across  my  mind 
like  dried  leaves  blown  by  a  wind.  I 
noticed  the  straight,  white  whiskers  on 
either  side  of  the  wildcat's  nostrils;  I 
heard  the  distant  fall  of  a  tree;  I  saw 
a  grasshopper  leap  from  a  blade  of 
grass  that  was  bending  under  his 
weight;  I  heard  the  scuttle  of  leaves 


somewhere  in  the  woods  and  knew  that 
a  bevy  of  quail  was  there.  But  I  could 
not  move.  I  stood  still  in  the  grip  of 
that  numb  terror. 

What  would  have  happened  I  can 
not  say.  Suddenly  the  fear  left  me — 
for  I  knew!  I  knew  that  the  tawny 
animal  before  me  was  a  wild  thing  of 
the  woods  even  as  were  the  other  wild 
things  I  loved.  I  knew  that  fear  of  fire 
had  driven  him  from  his  familiar 
haunts  far  up  in  the  mountains,  that  he 
sought  these  woods  for  protection,  not 
for  killing,  and  I  knew  that  I,  having 
been  in  those  woods  longer  than  he,  was 
hostess  there,  and  that  it  was  my  place 
to  make  him  welcome,  to  extend  to  him 
the  friendly  greetings  that  I  would  have 
tendered  to  any  of  my  woods  friends. 
The  fear  was  gone,  utterly.  I  wanted 
to  put  my  hand  on  his  sleek  head,  to 
stroke  his  glossy  back,  to  put  my  cheek 
against  the  russet  satin  of  his  thick  coat. 


ETHEL 
217 


But  I  made  no  move.  I  spoke  to  him, 
as  I  would  have  spoken  to  any  other  of 
my  woods  friends,  telling  him  that  he 
was  welcome,  that  the  woods  were  his 
as  well  as  mine,  and  that  I  hoped  the 
fire  would  spare  his  relatives  who  were 
dear  to  him. 

As  I  spoke,  the  amber  eyes  opened 
wider,  the  snarl  died  away,  and  sud- 
denly he  yawned,  voluminously,  with  a 
snap  of  his  jaws  and  a  careless  licking 
motion  of  his  red  tongue.  Then  his 
eyes  closed  indifferently,  and  I  knew 
he  had  understood  me.  I  knew  that 
between  us  was  no  thought  of  fear  or 
hate.  I  walked  past  him  up  the  trail, 
so  close  that  I  might  have  touched  him, 
and  he  did  not  move.  Only  the  amber 
eyes  met  mine  squarely,  and  it  was  as 
if  the  wild  thing  from  the  deeper 
woods  had  said  with  words, 

"We  are  friends — go  in  peace." 

When  I  had  gone  up  the  trail  a  way, 


I  stopped  at  the  bend  in  the  path  and 
looked  back.  The  wildcat  was  in  the 
same  position,  but  he  was  watching  me 
still  with  eyes  unblinking  and  unafraid. 

So  that  is  why,  some  years  later,  when 
Ethel  raised  her  head  and  met  my  eyes, 
the  icy  fear  slipped  away.  For  I  saw 
her,  not  a  savage,  bloodthirsty  beast, 
but  a  wild  thing  of  the  deep  woods, 
girded  round  with  iron  bars  and  sting- 
ing whips,  a  wild  thing  ruled  by  pain 
instead  of  kindliness,  and  there  surged 
into  my  heart  a  great  love  and  pity 
for  her.  I  wanted  to  take  the  whip 
from  the  man,  to  break  it  into  bits,  to 
tell  her  that  she  was  free  to  go  back  to 
her  mountain  fastnesses. 

So,  disregarding  the  cry  of  warning 
from  the  trainer  and  the  gasps  from 
those  who  stood  outside  the  cage,  I 
walked  slowly  toward  the  crouching 
lioness,  saying  to  her  the  things  I 
would  have  said  had  I  met  her  in  the 


ETHEL 
219 


woods,  telling  her  that  I,  too,  belonged 
to  the  out-of-doors,  that  I,  too,  was  a 
captive,  that  between  us  there  was  a 
bond.  Slowly  the  snarling  lips  re- 
laxed, the  glint  of  green  went  out  of 
her  slanting  eyes,  and  she  no  longer 
crouched.  I  knelt  beside  her  on  the 
floor  of  the  cage,  while  the  lions  above 
on  their  pedestals  watched  with  curi- 
ous, sullen  eyes,  and  the  trainer's  voice 
died  away  in  a  series  of  gulps.  Gently 
I  put  out  my  hand  and  touched  her 
rough,  tawny  head.  She  flinched  and 
snarled,  but  I  did  not  draw  my  hand 
away,  and  the  next  instant  I  felt  her 
tense  muscles  relax,  and  she  was  quiet 
under  the  steady  stroking  of  my  hand. 
The  trainer  spoke  to  me  in  an  ago- 
nized whisper,  telling  me  to  come 
away  quickly,  and  as  I  rose  from  my 
kneeling  position,  Ethel  rose,  too. 
Padding  over  to  the  pedestal  which 
was  hers,  she  mounted  to  it  with  a 


spring  and  sat  there  quietly,  her  eyes 
never  leaving  me  or  missing  a  motion 
I  made. 

When  we  left  the  cage,  Ethel  padded 
close  to  my  side,  and  the  trainer  said  in 
jest  that  I  might  take  her  for  a  pet. 

If  I  only  could  have!  My  heart 
was  aching  for  her  as  I  left,  for  I,  too, 
am  sometimes  rebellious  at  the  ways  of 
civilization  and  of  a  world  that  does 
not  know  or  care  about  the  things  of 
life  that  have  nothing  to  do  with 
money.  I,  too,  am  lonely  for  the  fresh- 
ness of  leaves  wet  with  dew,  the  feel- 
ing of  moss  underfoot,  the  glint  of  sun- 
light through  laced  branches.  I  think 
I  know  a  little  of  the  longing  that  is 
hers  as  she  paces  back  and  forth  in  her 
narrow  cage,  for  hers  is  not  a  savage 
heart — only  a  wild  heart;  and  I  know 
that  love  can  speak  to  it  and  soothe  its 
hurt. 


A    000036193     1 


